Devil's Spoke
by astudyinchuck
Summary: An AU in which youths from the poorer districts are sold to the Capitol as personal slaves. Peeta finds himself the unlucky Surplus of the victors of the previous Hunger Games: Cato and Clove.
1. Act 1, Scene 1

"Over there, boy!"

Down the close, darkening lanes they sing their way to the station by the siding shed. the mix of them, the starving youths march down the hard lanes in blues and whites and pinks, all of their best, but still somehow cheap, with faces grim and gay.

The girls, not in linens, who run with them pass out flowers. White, galbana lillies, so rare because nothing so beautiful has business here. the boys, stuck in their march, take them with humility, those memento moris, breat all stuck with wreath (as men's are, dead).

The Capitol mock what the girls mean, who give them flowers, who they will never kiss again. And the others, the girls in dresses and colours, stare over one shoulder without saying a word. These boys are not their to kiss or keep, but Surplus to capacity and requirement.

"Hurry, now! Lateness is not the virtue of a Valuable Asset."

Dull porters watch them, and the casual tramps stare hard, sorry to miss them from their greyest daydreams. Unmoved, signals nod, the Capitol women in their frocks and wigs begin to shout and tug and get the rabble in line.

So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, the youths lead out. Somewhere in the seam, mothers listen for the train whistle, they mutter their goodbyes guility: and never hear to which front they are sent.

At the head of the procession, a mockery in her lace and bows, Effie Trinket starts to speak. The boys stand to her left, silent, watching the girls who organise themselves quickly. The Peacekeepers at the end of the station watch hungrily, waiting for the first of them to fall out of the line, or sob for a parent, or sibling.

"Now, now." Effie says, animatedly, so affected that her words are like a strange musical babble. "No family in the Capitol ever paid to see a Surplus cry." her word are unfeeling and unkind, but not a soul dares disagree. She folds her hands in her gloves and stares hard over the sorry lot. The weakest ones get nudged by friends, urged to stop their sobbing.

It happens every year, the custom. The games are for all of the Districts to see, even the rich ones, the power of the Capitol. This is different: it is theft of the youth, a slave-trade. It keeps families fed, they argue, how unjust can it be?

Peeta stands in the second row, alone. In the satchel at his side, there is a tiny piece of stale bread, and some cheese, as a parting gift. It means little from the family that's selling him. It means the world to a Surplus.

In outline Districts, those who cannot make a living have few options. There's always a tesserae, but it provides little, and getting reaped is death in all certainty.

The other custom is submitting a youth, above the ages of sixteen to become a Surplus to a rich family. There's no telling to where one might be sent: there's always the Capitol, for the very lucky, pretty things. Or District's 1 or 2, depending on the skills of the Surplus, or the favour of the family.

A Valuable Asset, as Effie is quick to remind them, will get the best home, and the nicest family. Unworthy Surpluses are subject to beatings, starvation, neglect. Peeta knows, just like the rest of them, that it isn't skill that gets you a good home. It's luck. Appeal to the right family, and you will be fed and watered and cared for.

A Surplus is bought by an initial cost, and then weekly payments, so meaningless to the families that own them with all of their wealth. The money gets sent home, and is the only reminder of these forgotten children.

"The register will begin in a moment." Effie babbles, excitedly. she claps her hands in this parody of a dance. "Good luck to you, Surpluses of District 12." Her voice is loud and strong now, this monotone little speech from her own home. "An obedient Surplus is a Valuable Asset. Good luck to you _all._"

If Peeta could breathe, he would vomit. A V_aluable Asset_, indeed, he thinks. How lucky he will be if somebody in the Capitol fancies owning him, and having him as property. It's dehumanising, they know, but nobody seems to care.

The crowd lurches forward, along with Peeta's stomach, still unsettled. A single line, one on each side, runs through a set of Rendering Officers, who seal each Surplus' hand with a scorch mark, detailing to which District they'll be sent. It's very rarely outside of 1, or 2, or the Capitol. In 4, however, it's supposed to be much better for Surpluses. Treated better, and less like slaves, or furniture. It's typically worse if you belong to a Career house.

In a flash, Peeta is standing between the two of them. He's rendered mute, staring at their faces, hoping for some kind of sympathy, but none is ever found. They remove a very small sample of blood that makes him pale, testing it for anything contagious or work-hindering, before selecting the appropriate District to brand him with. The moment seems to last forever as the two dispute quietly.

The Capitol? Peeta thinks about their garish fashions, of their wigs and shoes and clothes. They keep Surpluses in collars, there, as another reminder of how the Capitol dominate. He knows he doesn't want to be sent there, so far away, too far away to even remember. It's because of them that this custom is set into place, along with the Games, too barbaric and demonic to be humane. Peeta will not go with them if they sent him to the Capitol. He will fight.

District 1? Luxurious, certainly, with most families wealthy and prosperous. They wouldn't have so much use for Peeta there, however: he isn't good at seeing or cleaning or most household tasks, which makes his value to District 1 decrease slightly. He wouldn't mind being sent there, because it;s a step-up from the Capitol, and there are no customs about 'collaring' Surpluses, or even restricting their movement. Surpluses in District 1 can move about as they please, which is a rarity.

Naturally, District 2 isn't like that. Collaring is optional, but looked upon as a fashion. It is, after all, the District most favoured by the Capitol. hey'd have a use for him there, mining and masonry, as Peeta is strong, and he can handle himself well enough. Laws on Surpluses are harsh: owners are encouraged to beat their Surpluses or at the very least mark them (by branding or beating or any other means). It's not the Capitol, Peeta thinks, but it's just as scary.

The thing is, they don't tell him. The scorch mark they slap on him is unintelligible, and Peeta is terrified, squawking for some explanation, by the time they load him onto the train. It's too soon, he screams, he isn't ready, he isn't a Valuable Asset, he wants to go home, this shouldn't have happened to him-

It's frowned upon to cry, Peeta knows that, but he's strong and it'll take a lot of blubbering to overlook him, even as a few tears escape and tear down his face, hot with shame. The rest of them, sat like slaves in rows of seats, try to ignore Peeta. some themselves, look on the verge of breaking, but remain unfeeling. It is a common fate. There's nothing special or upsetting about it, supposedly.

With a sigh, the train pulls out of the station, and with it waves goodbye to all of the known world. A girl besides Peeta, with mousy blonde hair and a strange accent rubs his arm.

"I'm sorry this happened to you," She says, kindly. It's the first ounce of kindness Peeta has received in so long. He looks at her for a very long time before wiping at his eyes.

"Me, too." He mumbles. For the both of them.

On the final stretch home, the train pauses briefly at a station in some District.

Either which way, Cato doesn't really know, or care. It's a waste anyway, the station nothing more than a shack on sandy paving. The station-master is a lean, dark-skinned man who presents himself in a torn, ugly uniform. At his feet, children run around in the dust, chasing chickens, all barefoot and dirty. There's nothing for miles, and it's the only stop before home, another few hours or so. Most of the passengers take the time to stretch their legs, careful not to step out onto the station, as if the air is unbreathable.

A crowd of wandering merchants, with greying beards and sad little faces hurry along, presented very rarely with the change to flog wares and rubbish, no doubt. They also wander without shoes, gasping at the passengers through the windows like dying travellers in search of sustenance. None is given. A dog remains, by a crowd of hens, brown fur, eyes rolling in purple sockets, watching the strange rabble. It's curious, Cato thinks, how desperate they can be.

One particularly bold, toothless man begins to scrape at the window along, and, not unkindly, clove opens it. The rush of warm, fresh air is a blessing, but the harassment is not. Neither of them smile to him, so desperate, pushing the grey behind his ears and bowing his head.

"Good afternoon, thank-you." He babbles, his hands shaking. The salesman tries to hold up his wares to the window, and out of a bad habit, Clove finds herself intrigued.

The menagerie of little wooden animals is quite spectacular. Detailed, painstakingly-crafted wonders peep at her, a giraffe with outlines spots and bones, and two dull jewels as his eyes. The carving stars at her, proudly, a work of beauty in itself. Better still is the lion, with an actual mane made of fine scruff, combed and beautiful. It has a silk-pink tongue, the only silk around for miles owned by these people. The lion looks fierce and bold, one paw lifted up as if somehow to rule. His eyes, too, are made of stone, but prettier. Each detail is a fine, carved testament to the beauty of the culture.

Clove can't really help herself. She reaches out and takes a hold of the lion, feeling it in her hands.

"Pretty lion for the pretty lady, please." He continues, scratching at the whiskers on his face, staring up at clove hungrily, but not for want of food. She looks across to Cato, the salient, for some kind of guidance and he shakes his head, a tiny gesture, eyes tired with annoyance.

"How much?" He gets out through his gritted teeth, making the majesty of the little lion seem crass. The opportunity seems rare, and the man grasps it, still leaning up through the carriage window, on his bare broken toes.

"Good afternoon sir, thank-you." He says again, trying to be personable and patient. They both know the smile he wears is for courtesy, and not out of contentedness. Impatient, Cato repeats himself.

"How much?" The man looks down at the lion and smiles again, toothless.

"Ah, for your lady, please, I give it you for three pieces, please."

They both know it's worth so much more, the lion, with it's proud scruff and silk tongue. it seems so raw, and powerful that Clove feels the need to refuse it. What would it mean away from the place she found it? Where would it sit in her antiques collection, the one that is unique filled with goods from the Capitol?

Cato smirks and its back, shaking his head. "No." Desperate, the man nearly whimpers.

"For your lady, please, I give it you cheaper." He begs, and looks at both of them for some kind of help. None is given. Clove looks away, at her feet, anywhere but him, or even Cato, who waves him off quickly with a stern look, before shutting the window again.

They sit in the silence of the carriage. clove twirls the cool metal band on her finger. She doesn't like the way it sits or feels, but to take it off would put Cato in a temper, and he's already in a foul mood from the journey. The heat is only making it worse, stirring the mad blood. She keeps it on, and tries to tear her attention away from the fact, not even new, but still so novelty. '_Husband_' she thinks to herself, in a cold sweat. It terrifies her.

"You shouldn't humour them." Cato warns her, his voice unfeeling. The words are hollow and ignorant, they make Clove feel hot with shame. "They're barbaric if you get too close." She laughs, a short, mirthless noise that sounds like being wounded.

"How ironic." She comments, smirking. Cato is wrestling with himself not to smile, and instead leans back, bringing his hands into his lap and cracking his knuckles individually, just to be difficult. He knows how much Clove hates that.

"Light of my life." He begins, tonelessly. "I'd much rather strangle you when we get _home_." Clove laughs again, actually affected by his humour.

"You know how I would hate to be an inconvenience to you, _dear._" She reaches over and pats his hand. Cato grins at her, a mixture of his annoyance and amusement and something devious, or lascivious.

"I'm touched by your concern." He says, rising from his seat, and moving towards the sliding door. Suddenly aware that she'll be alone when Cato leaves her, Clove sits up.

"Where are you going?" Cato shrugs.

"A walk." He says, carelessly. It's just like him to exclude Clove, to go out alone constantly and pretend it's not personal. It's almost funny, how much they cannot stand eachother's company, and how surely they love eachother, she thinks. Cato hasn't even joked about killing her since she fell pregnant.

"Oh," Clove says in a small voice. "Don't hurry back." She says, in a sour tone. Cato lets out another huge grin.

"I almost never do, darling." And he leaves her alone in the compartment.

The day is only getting hotter here. A few of the other passengers have thrown out food to the platform, dark chocolates that they deemed inedible. The chickens, in their proud colours, dart out and peck them up before the children or the dog can even move. Small crowds of salesmen try to flog other things, jewels and necklaces, and seeing them pass her window, Clove tries to appear invisible, turned away, holding her breath.

After what feels like hours, but is in reality only a few minutes, a whistle is blown by the raggedy station-master and the passengers start to head back into their seats. With all of his arrogance, she knows that Cato will see no problem in taking his time. It's rare that somebody has the gall to argue with a victor, especially one so hot-blooded as him.

Already, the train is started to pull away, and the salesmen are desperate now, chasing after the train, throwing jewels in the hopes that money will get thrown back. They start calling out to Clove, and she blushes, feeling intruded upon, until the train is a distance from the station and at a high enough speed that she feels alone again.

Cato joins her then, sitting in his seat, but leant forward. He presents her with something, the tiny lion from before, with all of it's scruff, and it's silk tongue. She takes it, wary of the look in his eyes.

"You didn't have to do that," She says, choosing her words very carefully. Cato shrugs.

"It was nothing, really." He laughs. "The stupid bastard sold it to me for two pieces." Clove feels herself grow heated with embarrassment and she shakes her head. Cato searches for her eyes but she gives none, and, God's bread, it makes him mad. "Jesus, Clove." He spits, furiously. "I shouldn't have bothered."

Clove nods. "No, you shouldn't have." they remain quiet for a few moments before Cato rises towards the door again.

"You better not be like this when we're picking out a Surplus, Clove." He snaps, and then lets out a breath. "I need a drink."

The train wheezes, headed straight home. It leaves her wondering, as she stares out at the desert wasteland, why she feels so angry with him. The lion sits on the sill, on it's side, unwanted.

She cannot bear to look at it.


	2. Act 1, Scene 2

It's unpopular, in the Capitol, to have a surplus from District 12. Why?

Because they can't stand the sight of them.

The train is silent as it turns a hard corner, and the passengers rock in unison, the same amount of momentum and misery and fear keeping them in motion. All of their faces look the same. The only thing distinguishing them is which stage of grief they have reached.

Some are fixed in denial, shaking their heads, so certain that there's a mistake and they can turn the train around to loving parents who will come up with something else, who will do anything to keep them. The others, just moved on, are angry. They pull out their hair and kick their feet, faces beet red. As if the injustice is a personal offence.

A few of them are bargaining, but most are depressed. At this stage, an hour into the journey, silent tears are shattering their resolves, their market value for the Capitol's eyes, or to whatever front they might be sent. Worst of all, they're just kids, taken out of school, and out of home and told to be invisible, told to exist for the betterment and benefit of a rich patron.

Peeta isn't sure if he has reached acceptance. Things aren't okay. They will never be okay again. He has given up trying to work out to which front he'll be sent, the scorch marks hints at nothing, and the blank faces around the carriage do not utter a word of guidance either which way. at the front, a guard sits, nodding, winking to the lamp. Tunnels cast darkness over all of them.

If he wanted anything, he might have taken the next train.

Besides him, the mousy-haired girl has fallen into a drowse of some sort. That'd strange, for any Surplus, no matter how bold. This load, including Peeta, are all being sold for the first time. If Surpluses are returned or criminalised, they are sent for rendering and then sometimes rehoused.

Other times, they're killed.

He can't help but imagine who might afford the term for him. If he'll get a nice little family, with teenagers his age, or kind, older citizens who let him grow complacent and lazy. Peeta doesn't want to deal with any Careers, they're known to be the worst to live with, spoiled, hot-headed, and indulged to excess. At least, he thinks with some optimism, that if they send him to the Capitol, that won't be an issue.

The only clue he has is to look at the other Surpluses. All of them have been trained, they know abut medications and housekeeping. The prettiest lot are always sent to the Capitol, and that would be a good factor to deduce with, but Peeta doesn't really know what constitutes as pretty. He has never had the time to care.

For a few hours, he falls into an agonised sleep, curled into sitting up. The dreams come four in a row, red rabbits, straw dogs, of how. he swears he can smell the stale bread of breakfast and Peeta's eyes open, cutting the delusion short, only to find the train slowing. Oh, Christ, crucified Christ, he thinks, this is the next step. Not arrival, he thinks thankfully, but close to it.

Dissociation.

They all bear marks from their previous lives, as free citizens of District 12. Surpluses are supposed to be sterile, when they are first sold there must be no indication or sympathies that elude to their previous lives. The 'equality' is often stressed, that all Surpluses should look the same and dress the same and remain invisible at all times, unless instructed otherwise by their patron, their owner. Obedience leads to being a Valuable Asset, as Effie would remind them. Valuable Assets do not get beaten.

A sharp tone passes through the carriage that stirs them all into action. The guard rises and stand by the door, waiting until the train stops and the passengers lurch forward to give anybody eye contact. He shakes his head at them, the poor bastards, the ones that didn't escape the stipulations of love. Not a should in the carriage dares speak, but a few cough. Peeta wants to go back. he wants to crawl into the earth and bury himself where nobody will ever find him, and only go back when things are like they were before.

"Up." The guard says. As if rehearsed, or to some unheard music, they rise in unison. Preparation for the life ahead of them.

The door to his side opens and pours white-hot light onto the youths inside. Peeta winces, blinded momentarily, and tries to focus on whatever is out there. Of course, they don't see anything, but a long, winding corridor, filled with the bleakness he feels. It's a temp joint. Not actually where they are being sent, but on the way.

"Out." The guard isn't exactly a sparkling conversationalist. Peeta feels as if he might cry again, but fights it, trying to appear unaffected, like it will do him any good or somehow spite the guard. It doesn't work like that, he knows, but the thought helps him put on a brave face. The first few rows lead off and he follows, down the winding darkness, lit by blistering lamps.

Peeta thinks this is the easier part. And he is right.

But this part is by no means easy.

They are divided up, again, into genders, and then into height order. Peeta isn't all that tall. He stands with five other boys, all of similar builds, in a tiny office-like room. They have been directed here, and they wait. Some of them, Peeta just about recognises, from the way they stand. All of them have undergone a radical change in face, going from happy, and free and relaxed to the saddest souls in Panem. The bitter produce of a harrowing sport.

A monstrous woman comes in, her skin a sickly white, and her hair pink. Capitol fashions, Peeta thinks, and then something cold in his stomach drops. Capitol. He shakes his head furiously. No, it's a silly assumption, it's a mistake-

She takes their weights, individually, and an approximate height. notes down other things, too, before the worst comes.

"Strip." She commands them. The boys look nervously at eachother, for some kind of support, to band together and form a useless camaraderie. The woman becomes impatient quickly, and her voice becomes cutting. "Disrobe immediately."

Peeta is the third boy to do so. They all peel away their shirts, with great hesitance, and then the shoes, scuffed by also shined with the spit of the honest worker, half-starved. Socks with so many holes in. And then trousers. She has left them with nothing to hide behind. They look to eachother, hands over their underwear, as it is the last thing they can hold on to. This is what the Capitol has reduced him to, Peeta thinks. From here on out he will be completely dehumanised.

The woman speaks again. What? What has she said? The other boys look very nervous, and she starts to shout.

"And the underwear." She snaps. "Quickly, now!"

The thinnest boy whimpers. Peeta has not ever in his life been shy about his body, having grown up with brothers, in a poor district. It's just flesh, after all, and everybody has it. Only, here, for the first time in his life, he actually feels ashamed and nervous, and he doesn't like that cold in his chest at all, not one bit. They look at eachother and nod, a silent promise that offers up no judgement. in near-unison, they undress completely, covering whatever remains shyly.

"Arms out." The woman says. She has grown tired of arguing. In a second, all six of them are completely naked, holding their arms out at full length, with nothing to cover the dignity of unlucky boys, Surpluses, slaves. Under her scrutiny, Peeta starts to feel struck with shyness. This is humiliating. Beyond that, to become a specimen, and for what? They aren't even told why, but subjected anyway.

Her scrutiny is cold. This woman has yellow eyes that are so soulless, they make Peeta want to go and put a jumper on. She seems to study each one of them individually, as if it pains her, before she nods, finishing up her writing of notes and turning back to them. The smile she manages seems to pain her.

"Thank you for your co-operation." She chirps to them, her voice stale. "An obedient Surplus is a Valuable Asset. Good luck to you all."

Even Effie's bubbly shrieks were somehow more dulcet. They dress quickly, careful not to mention what had just happened, or meet eachother's eyes. somebody else joins them, a lean man with brighter, more nauseating pink hair. His lips are green with lipstick and he looks like a jester.

"-pass on all basic medical requirements, and can certainly be used as Surpluses..." In between the murmurings between them, all the boys hear her say it. "All but the third boy."

They freeze, and the woman knows she is caught, faking a smile, leaving them alone whilst she chats to the Jester in the hall. It leaves the boys with time to argue. At least if Peeta shouts it will cover the shame on his face. They never tell you about this when you are enlisted. The inconvenient details are left out until it's too late, and Peeta fears he'll be sat in the Capitol, starved, watching his patron eat with other garish, manic, pixie-like creatures.

"Well, it isn't me." The thinnest one begins, pulling up his trousers hastily. Another one whirls on him.

"Cowshit, Ellis, it definitely was." The one named Ellis pales, and he looks around the boys to try and find one to accuse. he locks eyes on Peeta and mistakes him for an easy target.

"What about him?" He asks, his tone weak and desperate. Peeta doesn't have the heart to shout at him: they have all been helpless today, and robbed of their humanity. The least he can do is humour him. They all know Peeta isn't the third boy. Or at least, they think they know.

"How do we know he isn't the one they want?" All eyes turn to Peeta, and he looks back at them.

(An unpleasant thought: the woman and the Jester know who the third boy is.)

It's just turning dark dark.

The Mockingjays call to the passengers, still thrown in with eachother. most have retired to sleeping, in private rooms at the back of the train, and others remain in private spaces to read, or to enjoy the day's worth of exploration they have gathered up. They still have anther hour or so, yet, before home, and nobody is in a hurry to be anywhere.

Cato is aware that Clove has been sitting besides him for twenty-three minutes and forty-five seconds, approximately. He's aware that she has ordered one drink: a tall glass of lemonade, and that she's only sipped it abut three times. Clove drinks very slowly, she always has done, liking to take her time and enjoy the flavour. Cato likes to demolish bottles very quickly, not fussed about taste, but about effects. He likes to soothe the ringing in his ears.

It's only now she decides to speak.

"Don't get drunk, dear. I'd hate for you to choke on your own vomit." For something so small and sweet-looking, she certainly knows how to make an entrance. He turns to her, his eyes swimming and red. She isn't afraid of him, even though all Cato has to do is lift an enormous arm and crush her. After all this time, they both suspect he doesn't have it in him.

"I'm not drunk." Cato snaps to her, because he isn't. Clove sighs.

"Tipsy, then."

"Comfortable." He hedges. Clove lets out a small laugh.

"Nuance, darling." She takes another sip from her drink and watches him the entire time. Usually, she takes something stronger, and more vile, something like absinthe, just to be difficult. He watches her drink and thinks about kissing her, because, theoretically, he could do it, he could lean across and take her lips and then they really would be kissing, which isn't something they do, it's not like them. But he thinks about it often, and how good she looks in red, and how much he hates her, and loves her, and despises this predicament.

Clove catches him looking and she softens, a little. Her eyes go warm with the hint of a smile and it's like she's searching in him for whatever had once been there. She feels unsure, because it's this, all of this; tenderness and caring and saying how she feels, that's so dangerous. It's easier to have Cato strangle her when they fuck, or anything like that, to remind them where they stand.

Naturally, it doesn't last, and Cato fixes an arm around her waist, whispering to her.

"You're getting fat, sweetheart." He tells her, which makes Clove chuckle. She talks back in the same quiet whisper. It usually strikes people as odd when the 'star-crossed loves of District 2' talk this way. Not that it matters.

"And you're losing your hair, love." She counters him, with a nasty smile, and Cato goes to retaliate, caught up in the conversation. He leans in to talk but is interrupted.

"Excuse me." A tall man taps the bar besides Clove. "Excuse me, might I just-" Suddenly aware that they are not alone, Cato recoils quickly, staring at the intruder, demanding an explanation. Seemingly oblivious, she takes another long drink before turning to the man demanding her attention, who is, for once, not Cato. Right away, she knows she doesn't recognise him.

"Can I help you?" Clove says. She isn't in company she's used to, and Cato watches, in the know, as she becomes cold and distant. It's almost funny that the warmest she gets is around him, and that usually means threats and pulling teeth, but it doesn't move him to laugh. The stranger smiles to her.

"You're the victor for District 2." He says with such pride, like it's an accomplishment to know. It makes her feel at odds, remembering what they think she is, and being completely removed from it. Clove doesn't speak, she nods. "You won me a lot of money." He speaks again. "How are you?"

She isn't unsure if it's to piss Cato off, or because it's nice to play a part in there 'normal' social customs, but Clove finds herself talking back before she can help it. Cato is so much more fun when he's jealous, his face goes all red and his jaw clenches.

"I'm fine, thank you." She says, graciously, flicking out a wrist to fix her hair. It's easy to play people from rich districts, and especially the Capitol: they all think you're in love with them.

"D'you still live in District 2, or have you moved to the Capitol?" His questions seem pretty innocent. Clove smiles, mostly for her own benefit, and wets her lips before speaking.

"I kept the house in Victor's Village," She nearly says 'we', but avoids it, aware that it will shatter the whole illusion. Meanwhile, Cato, still as vicious and monstrous and enormous is sat to her other side, watching the stranger very carefully.

"I haven't seen you on this trip before," he continues. "Do you not come often?" Clove dares a quick glance at Cato.

"No," she says, absently. "I suppose I don't." He sets an arm down on the bar and smiles at her.

"So, let me buy you a drink." With those words, Clove knows something terrible is going to happen. She hates Cato for his smothering, never letting her fight her own battles, or defending herself, even back at the academy. All of this 'love' and caring makes her look weak and useless, and it makes him look even better. Clove isn't in the business of helping him at all, thank you very much.

"No, thankyou." She says, her words clear. This guy doesn't take a hint, or even notice the glare from Cato. People are always unsure if they are still 'together'. Marriages don't mean a lot, they are usually political, and in aid of both parties rather than out of emotion. It isn't public knowledge that they sleep in the same bed (curled around respective weapons), or that Clove is pregnant.

"You aren't still with your District partner, are you?" The stranger ventures, totally unaware that Cato is right there and he's had enough to drink and he has a hell of a temper. Clove can sense him become tense and flushed with indignance. It is the only calm before the storm. She doesn't say anything . "So, come on." He continues. "One drink. What will it be?"

Clove straightens and purses her lips. "I said no, thank you." Because she hates repeating herself, and it shows the worst signs of an idiot if that is required. God, all she wants is to be home and forget about today, the poor man at the station and his proud little lion carving or Cato's drinking and his temper and the way he will no doubt take it out on whatever poor Surplus they happen to pick.

"You're serious." The stranger shakes his head. "Your District's freakshow-" Clove turns to him, angrily. Cato clears his throat, setting a hand on the bar, as if to warn the man.

"Don't be rude." She chooses her words carefully, striving for diplomacy. "I'm flattered," She says. "But I'm not interested, thanks. I'm sure you can see yourself out." And with that, she picks up her lemonade, the one she had brought with Cato's money, with the hand that bears Cato's ring and faces ahead, eyes emotionless and vacant. He scoffs.

"I was sure you'd be warmer than that." He drawls, with this horrible smirk. "You opened your lap to that hothead rather quick-" Cato stands, cracking his knuckles, staring the stranger down. He's a good head smaller than Cato, and not nearly as built. It's rare anybody is. Cocky, or stupid, he laughs.

"I still can't believe that is your boyfriend." He smiles.

Clove turns back to her drink, trying to ignore the scene, trying to get home, because it's barely dark out and Cato is already bringing home wars. She doesn't want their home to be like this, all violence and temper, because she isn't strong enough to fight Cato on her own, and she isn't prepared to protect a child.

A heavy thud turns her around, and she's alarmed to see the stranger kneeling on the ground, a small spray of blood on the carriage carpet. Cato turns to her, seeing her shock.

"What are you doing?" Clove asks, in a tiny voice. He smiles at her, this sadistic, horrible smirk that distorted his face and makes it appear grotesque and inhuman. This is the Cato the arena and the Capitol and the world have seen. Everybody else has turned to watch.

The stranger stands. He isn't up for very long. 


	3. Act 1, Scene 3

Peeta lays, once again naked, on a cold metal slab.

His eyes trace patterns on the ceiling, wondering what kind of place he has found himself in, more of a morgue than anything else. Its cold enough here for the dead to sleep, no trouble, but Peeta, with whatever life remains within him, shivers violently. (He wishes he were to the wall, just a little.) At least he's alone for now. Safe in his solitude, but he knows, not for long.

Scares are rife on his body. Burn marks from his carelessness and heavy-handedness go ladder his arms in shiny, colourful stripes, in different egress of aging or healing. They interrupt the light covering of blonde hair, but the colour is so light that it's not very noticeable. Peeta has never had anybody look very close. His hands are moderately soft, and his face is quite fair from spending much of his time indoors.

To home, and the Seam, Peeta is lucky, damn lucky, and they can see it all over him. He walks straight and stands upright, not at all marred from working. Compared to many of the boys in his year, Peeta isn't built badly, and he's got enough food to get by, which is enviable by and standards, most of all in District 12. His pallor suggests that he works inside, and that s the luckiest part of it.

Of course, to the Capitol, any of them, he seems starved and battered, all cuts and scrapes and bruises. His hair has no cut or style, simply flaxen. His walk is sloppy and he seems as if he would be clumsy, large hands and strong arms. A useless Surplus on all counts- treading far too loudly, eyes never cat down when they should be, shoulders always up, as if constantly bracing for a hit.

This is the only thing he looks to for comfort. In such a state, they'll never take him to the Capitol. No. Surely not.

A door, somewhere to his left swings open and a buzzing surgeon enters, alongside a younger, nervous youth. Peeta doesn't expect a Surplus surgeon to be too chirpy, but he s proven wrong by the manic, powder-blue sprite that hums as he collects his instruments from the far desk. He walks no, skips- over to Peeta s side, passing his eyes over the view, seeming even a little bit bored.

"That state them in," He tuts, shaking his head. "You have to wonder what goes on in these Districts." Peeta feels something cold uncurl in his stomach and he bites his lip, trying to remain silent and motionless, and not let his emotions betray his resolve. "Backwards, all of them." The surgeon tugs the youth over to his side and points down at Peeta with a gloved finger like he's a cadaver already, and it's not like they fight fair.

"Go on, boy, Administer the sedative."

Oh Christ, oh, Jesus, what will they be doing that requires a sedative? The Capitol is always so reluctant to hand out drugs to poor Districts. To actually administer one gives him leave to panic, and imagine the horror that awaits him. He wants to scream, Peeta wants home badly, the smell of the sweet linens in the cupboard and the crack of the stale breakfast bread.

'There's a mistake!' He wants to cry out desperately, mute against his better judgement. 'Send me back!' He feels his hands curl into fists and his heart is trying to crack open his ribcage and spill out a ragged mess of blood on the sterile metal. Not here. Not now. Peeta is young, he's too young and he's scared, he wants to go back now.

None hear him. And even if they do, what should they care? Surplus Peeta, useless Peeta, paid for with money and just a commodity, there to serve a purpose and a master. He tries to move, but the surgeon forces him down with a hand and the boy is on him in a second, with a long, sharp skewer-like needle that he digs right deep into Peeta s wrist.

Peeta actually cries out, forcing with his right hand, panicking, trying to get away. He feels himself go slacker and suddenly struck with an inability to move. He can feel, though, Jesus, what have they done that makes it hurt like this? The skewer, or the needle, or whatever is making him scream like this winks coyly at his, buried in skin that feels on fire, like it doesn't t belong to Peeta. His breathing becomes tight, he needs out; he needs to get out now.

The boy watches him in horror, and the surgeon goes in for Peeta again, malicious intent, pulling out the needle with such force that a steady stream of blood follows it, hot and sticky as it runs down Peeta s arm. It seems so stark against his skin. Tears are threatening to spill in his eyes, but he fights them, they will not win, they will not beat him, he will not let them without a fight.

It's a one-sided war, of course. There can only ever be one winner.

On his back, Peeta faces the ceiling; he keeps himself resolute in fighting any emotion that creeps onto his face. It was okay to cry at the platform, at the station, those were eyes he could trust, that were mournful as his, but here there is no pity, there is nothing, and Peeta feels like he is drowning, unable to move at all, unable to get enough air in him. Has the blue always been so cold? The red so strident?

"Easy, now." The surgeon warns the boy, maybe an apprentice student, but still another cog in this murderous machine. He turns to the side for a second, and then returns with a sharp, tiny knife. It glints in the light, romancing the air, seeking worthier prey but practising with Peeta. "You have to make the cut neat."

Peeta hold his breath.

All of this can be broken. All of this can disappear. He tries to master it, to control himself, holding his Devil by its spoke, spinning t to the ground but he cannot move and these Devils and tricky, they aren't of home and they mock what girls mean, who gave them flowers, they are quick and cut deep, quick, cheaply.

The surgeon brings down the knife with precision. Peeta erupts into another cry, not one of pain, but being torn from his body, trying to match the agony he has found himself in. He can feel each level of skin being broken into, the blood vessels exploding as they tear, and each side wrenched from the other as blood spills over, messily, running the accuracy. He goes deep, Peeta screams, tears spilling down his face in hot, indescribably agony, he must be going all the way through. Was this always his fate?

He cannot breath, he realises it then, after his screams die away, he hears gasping, this desperate rasp for oxygen and it registers that it's him, he is making that noise. Part of him prays that he will suffocate. He will die here and be spared the agonies. But he sees his chest collapsing and rising erratically, feels these tiny, pathetic breaths going through him, and he knows with a terrified whimper that he is going to live.

Hold your Devil, he tries to remember, hold your Devil by his spoke, and spin him to the ground.

The pain is white-hot and Peeta feels himself go light. The sensation does not lessen. He spares another glance, and wants to vomit, he wants to hurl because he can smell it from here, the sticky blood ticking down his arm, pooling at his side. A mass of gore is lumped into the dish besides the surgeon, working furiously. He digs the scalpel in, like a shovel, tearing up at Peeta's insides and causing ore bleeding, before rending it form him, tearing out chunks of his arm.

After a while, he leans over, and with a bloody glove, picks up a small, electrical component. Embedded time, he thinks, in horror.

With a superhuman inhumanity, the surgeon starts to wire it in where skin and flesh used to be. Peeta isn't screaming. He s trembling, uncontrollably shaking, his face ruddy and flushed with tears that are sharp, but sting no worse that the venal blade of the surgeon. Home, Peeta tries, home, and his Devil, his Devil's Spoke but nothing comes, save the white-hot pain that passes through him like a shock, making him convulse like a live wire.

His eyes remain fixed in the same spot, staring the mound of pulp and skin and blood and he can feel himself crying, not an active sob but a basic response, like being a child, all helpless and afraid again. He can't do anything else: he can't move.

"You must make it clean," The surgeon explains, as he fixes up the wires. Peeta no longer feels human; it's the process coming to fruition. He feels mechanical, ready to serve, ready to die and dream of electric sheep.

The component sends a judder through Peeta s body, he feels it stirring him. Maybe the sedative is wearing off, he feels his body curl in on itself slightly, still pained and weak and shaking, still stuck with blood. He doesn't t feel brave, if he ever had done before. It's as if somebody has said the magic words abracadabra! And he goes stiff, like a brittle, lifeless brown leaf.

The youth brings over a small metal lead and fiddles with the head. A small jet of cold water passes over the component, and Peeta s wrist, clearing away the blood and fixing him up to look better. He lifts Peeta s limp wrist and studies the set digital face. It tells the time, and it makes Peeta aware and hateful of every single moment that passes.

He whimpers, and stares into the face of the youth, who offers no sympathy.

"Now," The surgeon says, as she turns to a selection of salves. Peeta's eyes are blurred and swimming but he can just about see the yellow triangles, warning, with words he doesn't t really know like corrosive and caustic . "What are we going to do about all of those scars?"

Peeta makes a noise of terror. The youth grins.

SURPLUS LAWS TIGHTENED, the ugly newspaper font reads. Cato doesn't t bother with the smaller text, just the headline. Truth be told, he doesn't t really believe in it. Newspapers will have you believe almost anything, and he s been the victim of that before. Clove seems pretty entertained. Anything not to talk to him, lips pursed, face fixed in hostility.

"Do you always move your lips when you read?" He asks, trying to pull her back into the conversation. He wants her attention again, and he can see her trying to fight it, but she gives in, never lifting her eyes from the page, keeping a cold mask.

"Do you always have to complain"? Clove tuts. She's always so quick to fight back, and so hot-headed. It isn't meaningful, though. They have only ever been serious a few times. When she screamed for Cato, when she was so certain he'd die.

"Untrue." Cato grins. "I haven't said anything about that dress, _love of mine_."

She sighs, actually very irritated, and folds over the paper, watching out of the windows and into the brilliantly lit night. The train has slowed, and all of the passengers lurch forward slowly as it comes to a halt. Cato leans into her, wanting to be close, but unable to rationalise the thought to words. It's stupid, he knows, but he wonders if she ever feels this way, if she ever needs him.

She leads, as if she is trying to avoid him, onto the platform and around, to the long, white path. It's a long way, and he's struggling to keep up with her. His lip is bleeding, because Cato is strong, but he isn't always so quick. Slow isn't great, but he hasn't t ever lost. It's an unseasonably warm evening, people spilling out into gardens and laughing. Fireflies, and the occasional birds flick through the city, trying to find the scarcity of trees.

Cato takes one of her arms and tries to slow her down, but Clove tugs away, and it shocks him. "Clove." His voice is gentler than usual, but not soft enough to pry her from her mood. Aware that his tactic is failing, Cato spins her to face him, roughly." Dammnit, Clove."

She struggles under his grasp and pries herself away. Her face is white with anger. "Cato-" She is flustered and indignant, fixing a strand of her away from her face. He laughs, mirthlessly, and shakes his head.

They fall into silence, already in the thick of town. I s warm, and pretty much everybody is open for business, shedding artificial light on the invincible darkness. Dull porters weave through tables to serve customers, and in the main square, as is the season; they have Surpluses lined up according to which firm they belong to. Clove heads there, passing all of the restaurants and shops, with bold smells that make her stomach turn. Nothing makes it turn worse than Cato, of course, but that s for a different reason altogether.

He can't help but make a scene anyway, gripping her arm again as they pass the first few rows, pretty young things. A few of the girls make Cato look up, which serves to enrage Clove further. They both know what kind of man he is.

"Come on,_ dearest_." He hisses. "Indignance doesn't to become you." Clove stamps on his toe and gets away, momentarily, going to linger by the section of older ones, so that Cato will have to behave himself under the public eye. He almost never does, but it's the best she can muster. He follows behind, grimacing.

"Are you angry with me?" He laughs, in an ugly tone. "You're angry with _me_, after _that_?" Clove turns on him and speaks in a violent whisper, hating to be shown up here, and having had a scene made back on the train. The whole thing has been an unmitigated disaster.

"I don't have to listen to this." She reminds him, trying to calm herself. He only wants a reaction, which is the only reason the impudent, stupid man exists, to provoke Clove and embarrass her and mess with her. Even when they were in the arena, even then, he still found ways to make sure everybody knew he had her played.

"I didn't to have to do that for you," Cato says, far too loudly, exasperated. It's the only emotion he ever seems to display, some form of aggression or frustration. She sighs again.

"Really?" She shakes her head. "That was for _me_, that little display? That was for _my_ benefit?"

"Yes!" Cato snaps right back at her, his face going pink with impatience. This is a safe kind of anger, Clove recognises it. He's never snapped anybody's neck when he's in a mood like this, to her relief. Not that he's never been murderous to her before, it's Cato's nature to be like that. What he was taught all of his life, so he's somehow excused. "Of course it was for you!"

Clove pushes a hand through her hair and scans the faces of the sad children in front of her. There are so many types of Surplus, even though they all do the same basic job. The beautiful girls, obviously for some kind of sexual gratification and objectification. The smaller, plainer ones are usually seamstresses and cooks, hapless little creatures that don't have it so comfortable because they don't look a certain way.

"Well, next time-" She looks over at the boys, the hardy creatures usually bought as sparring partners. They all look so peaceful, even with all of their strength and indoctrination. Even with such an ugly fate. Was Cato ever like that? Clove doubts it.

"Next time, don't bother, okay?" People are starting to stare at them, some recognising them, others questioning what right these two have to disrupt the peace. Birds are singing to calm them both down. Being Angry is tiring, Clove does not have the energy to last much longer. She wants them to go back to being naive and silly and lucky to be alive. He wasn't so temperamental, then. "Let's just pick a Surplus and go home,"

For once, Cato seems at a genuine loss for what to say. He can't seem to keep his mouth closed, leaving him thoughtless, wordless, and useless. She supposes that he's never been much good with talking; he has never had to say anything before Clove. Even in getting married, and having to say only two words, he seemed to have difficulty. That had been when they were sweet, would you believe, when she was so sure they were in love. The irony of the past isn't lost on her at all.

There's no more talking. He follows her, still mute, through the assembly of the youths, of all ages and descriptions. The dissociation process is quite miraculous; they all thank the Capitol surgeons for ridding each Surplus of their former lives. It's difficult for Clove to be around a District 12 for very long without thinking about the games, about Cato's horrifying display at the bloodbath.

Suddenly, she realises that some will recognise them, and she feels sick. They must be petrified: brutal, bloody Cato, and the girl that never misses. At least some Surplus patrons can pretend to be merciful.

She is practical, unlike her half. Clove thinks about home, and all the things they have need for. Somebody to brighten up the place, certainly. A nice young thing that ought to be impressed by the wealth of the Victor's Village. One who is a Valuable Asset, too, who can cook and clean and garden and all the rest of it. Musical aptitude would not go amiss, either, as the house is always so quiet with Cato never being home. They'll need a Surplus that can attend to children by some stretch of the imagination. Clove has never been very nurturing; she suspects she shall need help.

They have a generous section taken up by Surpluses that can farm, even though it's unpopular here to grow anything. Make the other Districts work, they always say. There is a reason the Capitol subjugates them, they deserve the work they are given. Clove doesn't pay them much mind; anyway, she is vain of a garden over a vegetable patch, the best of days.

Household Surpluses are at the very end of the square. They are dressed in white, the giveaway of their function, and have swollen, strident wrists where fresh incisions have been made. Embedded time is very important. A late Surplus will not do for any household, least of all theirs. Not only that, but Surpluses have been known to become complacent, or even violent. Embedded time serves as another reminder that they are owned; their time is governed by their household, and not their own decisions.

Cato lingers by a dark-haired girl, further back, and takes all of her in. Of course it would be a girl, another way to pry a reaction from Clove, to get her angry. She hasn't any time for him tonight, or most night, but especially today, with that carved lion and that fight on the train. Still, he glances over her, folding an enormous arm over the top of the other. The Surplus, a good, obedient little thing, keeps her eyes downcast, to demonstrate her insignificance.

Clove turns to the domestics, mostly girls, and peruses them. She wants a pretty little thing, something for her, to flaunt to Cato. It's hard to keep a cold view on things, though, because she's tired and it's been a long day and they all look so pathetic. One of the boys in the second row is even crying.

"What's wrong with him?" Clove turns to the Rendering officer in charge and gestures to the boy. His eyes are all bright as he cries, softly. Renderers are not paid to care, they just sell the Surpluses. She'd be impressed if he could say. Before the Renderer can even speak, the one next to the crying Surplus actually finds the temerity to speak, and to Clove directly.

"He's pretty shaken." The boy explains. Clove is taken aghast. Not even bought Surpluses speak to their owners without definite permission. He makes nothing of it, too, as if he has the right to stand there, an equal to her, and actually make eye contact. It's in the eyes, this reluctance to become a commodity, to submit. They dart about, curious of their surroundings, like all of this if for him. He looks older, in his eyes, too. Like he's seen so much he should have shut his eyes to.

"Excuse him." The Renderer says, nervously, caught out. "A beating ought to tighten his tongue, miss." Clove nods, trying to overcome the shock of him speaking. Even now, the boy stands proudly, shoulders apart, like he has done nothing wrong. The nerve of him! Not even the threat of a beating makes him flinch.

"I should hope so." Clove says, stiffly. The boy keeps looking at her, neither inviting nor cold, but just looking. He's even a little hostile. She can see where they have broken him, where he has been crying. The Capitol does an excellent job in cleaning them up, dissolving skin to get rid of scars, fixing them up. Clove often wonders why they don't cut out their tongues, like Avoxes, but that's a political punishment, and she supposes it would lose its power if distributed to the mass of Surpluses.

She can hear him coming, and all of a sudden Cato is at her side again, still motionless and mute. It makes her want to pick quickly, and suddenly.

Cato points to a skinny girl at the front. Her skin has been bleached with an acid, just like the rest of them, and her hair has been trimmed into a short ponytail. She's pretty, Clove knows. The Renderer makes a noise of interest.

"Excellent eye, sir." He says, dramatically. "She's a pretty little thing. Useful little cook, too." Clove shakes her head immediately. She knows what he's playing at.

"I'll pick." She says, certainly. As a student of names, she holds a hand out and is passed the list. It's important not to be swayed by their appearances. All of them are typical of poor Districts, plain and uninteresting. None leap out at her.

She won't have a girl. No, she knows what Cato is like, and he uses sex as a weapon. Pretty soon, they'll have something on their hands, if they pick a girl, and they won't be able to do anything about it. At least Clove is faithful, which is why she deserves a pretty piece of skin. The bolder boy is looking at her again. He's tall and impossible. She tries to find his name, but it's impossible to tell. And she won't take it back once it's been said either, she won't be wrong in front of any of these Surpluses, or Cato.

The other boy is still crying. It's nauseating. Honestly, it's not enough that they are given the opportunity. Some are so ungrateful, and useless. Clove is a firm believer in using force.

She clears her throat, watching the reactions of the Surpluses. Everybody holds their breath.

"Clove..?" Cato speaks. She snaps out of her reverie quickly, still not looking at him. The dark-haired boy watches her still. She has to choose wisely.

"Peeta." She says, without emotion. "Peeta Mellark."

The crying boy lifts his head, frozen in terror.

"Excellent choice, also." The Renderer nods. The dark-haired boy drops his head. The crowd parts to let him through.

This boy, Peeta, can be no older than eighteen, but looks about sixteen, his hair stiff and pushed out of his face, emerges. His skin has also been bleached and purged. Clove is surprised to find herself feeling pity, _good heavens_, pity for this little stray. He's quite stocky for a Surplus. Not compared to Cato, but he's certainly not weak. Even now, however, he's still crying a bit, obviously having had a rough time. It will take a considerable amount of crying to disregard him as a Valuable Asset.

He turns back to the rest of the crowd. With a trembling hand, he places three fingers to his lips, and then raises his arm up. They do the same, all silent, just watching the boy.

The boy starts to cry again, and turns to Clove.

"Excellent choice, sweetheart." Cato chides to her. She feels determined to prove him wrong.


	4. Act 2, Scene 1

_First, there is desire._

All eyes are ice. Ghostly spectators watch, a myriad of spectres that haunt, rather than participate, in the world around them. The girl in the centre of the floor, the girl set alight, smells of combustion and something else, sweet and life-giving, akin to both honey and death. She does not think not think to move at all, paralysed in want to the boy before her, but instead smiles, so rare and far between, but torn from her soul. Somewhere, he can hear violins, and as Peeta draws nearer, he becomes intoxicated by her, the scent of her skin and some foreign flowers.

Then, there is passion.

Without words, she brings him into a lustful kiss, her hands set like stone, one on his shoulder, and the other on the small of his back. Peeta doesn't feel nervous, for the first time in ages. His calm radiates throughout the room. Steady, she calls him, always steady. And not one of them trembles, so natural, so comfortable. Her hair is dark and smells like rose root, jasmine and the florist shop, in summer. When she meets his eyes, there is only certainty and want, the kind that remain fixed on Peeta while the rest of the world burns.

The spectres make such beautiful music, and Peeta can feel himself being swayed, the sensation passing through her, and then him, and he feels like half of the heart, assured that the chambers and the valves pump the sentiment to her when hi words cannot. Not swaying, anymore, he realizes suddenly that they're dancing, and her breath is tickling his neck. Love, he thinks, love after all of this, and so long. It comes like falling asleep. Slow, at first, but then consuming and comfortable.

Nobody else dares to penetrate the silence. As she twirls, her skirt brushed against Peeta's legs and he can feel these gentle, romantic flames licking at the fabric and romancing the skin. He could burn here, like this. He could turn to ash in her arms and it would be enough. It's so sudden that they're kissing again, his hand stroking the nape of her neck and sighing. It's real. It's real and he needs this, it's like oxygen and he breathes he in like she's about to disappear. The flames still kiss at his shins, making his strength go weak at the knees, held up in her steadfastness.

She spins out, and Peeta's still a bit shaken, but she's spinning too far and too fast and wildly, too gone for his hands to reach, and she spins away into the dreadful silence, and this darkness and dust is gathering from her feet and clouding the air. Peeta is about to be left along, he doesn't want her to leave him here, not on his own, not as useless as this. He can't seem to move, sinking into the wood as he screams out, hopelessly.

"Katniss!" He screams, and suddenly it's not just him, his voice is lost over the rabble of people and they are crushing him, too close, too tightly packed in. Can't breathe. Can't breathe because his lungs are on fire and she's gone, Christ, where has she gone? How far has she spun that she might not spin again? "Katniss!" But now she's disappeared into the darkness of boys and he tried to scream again, he loves her and he can't breathe and the blue is cold, the red explosive and suddenly he's not the only one screaming— "Katni-"

High on the stage, the pink-haired lady mocks them. "Katniss Everdeen." And it's too late; she's gone, slipped out of Peeta's fingers like liquid sunshine. Peeta's hearing is shot and he's sinking into the ground, drowning and struggling, and unable to breathe. But that's not the worst part. No, that's not the worst part at all.

"Peeta Mellark."

And suddenly it's not Effie on the stage, bright and bubbly, but Clove, in her orange dress, with her hair pulled away from her face, face fixed in a grimace. The crowd is dead with silence and she's looking right at him, right into his soul and tearing it apart, laughing at all of his thoughts because he's worthless and embarrassing. Her eyes pass behind him, into the nothingness of the crowd and she smiles, like a wound wide open. No more flowers, no more rose root and jasmine, but blood, the foul stench that makes Peeta think of pulp and flesh, of embedded time.

He tried to get away, his feet begin to backpedal and he thinks they'll forget h, he's free, he's getting away and it' all going to be okay, it's all going to be-

Peeta screams in anguish, he watches as the other end of the blade glints, bursting through his heart, where sentiment is no longer found, and Katniss is screaming but Peeta cannot hear her, he cannot save her and he hears a whisper in his ear, hot and tormented and as sharp as the sword, belonging to his owner.

"I can still do this." Cato hisses, breathless. "One more kill."

He draws he blade out of Peeta's chest, and he's coughing up blood, choking, dying, the universe collapsing and expanding before his eyes.

"Katniss…" He gasps, a bloody hand clawing at the floor.

Only the wind dares volunteer take his place. 

Peeta wakes in a horrified sweat at exactly three o'clock. It's quiet, in the house, with only the sound of his breathing to comfort him. There is n Katniss, no Girl on Fire dancing for him. There's no reaping, he's not going to die in the arena. It's the only comfort he has, and he clings to it. Not all of the dream was so fabricated. Peeta knows, and he's scared, because through the house and up the stairs, curled around a dagger, Clove is sleeping, and she's laying besides Cato, brutish, macabre Cato. They feel no remorse in killing, Peeta has seen it.

He could barely watch the game this year. Not with Katniss, whom he had loved so truly, whom he had never even spoken with. She'd done so well, she could have won. But he supposes it was inevitable, for them to win. The inhuman duo of District 2, the Careers. Peeta was sure they felt nothing; he was so sure they deserved to die, for slaying his youthful love, but then they saw it. The world saw what they both had strived so hard to hide.

She's screamed. She thought she would die, and Clove no longer cared about being weak of objectified or desirable, she was facing death and she wanted Cato to save her, to hold her hand as she slipped into the darkness. Her voice was taut and frayed.

"Cato!" Her eyes were squeezed shut, but her assailant, the boy from eleven, cared none. His name was Thresh, and he did not deserve to die the way he did, unceremoniously. "Cato!" Again, she cried out, Thresh was sure to kill her, all while Katniss watched, terrified, helpless.

"Clove!" From the thicket, his voice came. It was the only time during the games, save for maybe the finale, that Peeta could be sure Cato felt anything but aggression. It seemed he felt a great deal more than that, and he appeared in a second, leaning on his heels, throwing the spear (Marvel's, not his, but Cato used it anyway. Peeta had heard him say 'it wasn't' as if Marvel was coming back to claim it'). The lance pierced Thresh's back and drove itself in to the hilt. In a second, he dropped Clove, who was spluttering and gasping for air. In a second, Katniss was gone. They let her go. It seemed Cato had only focus enough for Clove.

"It's okay." He said to her. It was anything but, though she seemed to believe him. "You're okay, we're okay." For a second, he looked as if he would slip into malice again and pursue Katniss, but instead he gripped Clove's arms and kissed her, ferocious and passionate and scared.

After that, they went back to machines again. Had they ever grown out of it?

Peeta is afraid that they'll kill him. He's a Surplus, now, after all, and it wouldn't be the first time. He has heard the way they talk to each other, heaven forbid, an actual married couple, threats to kill and insults and ironic pet names. He can' help but think of his mother, who's philosophy on relationships always was 'you can kill them with kindness'. So she never bothered.

Upstairs, Clove is restless and she cannot sleep. It's that Surplus' eyes, those sad, blue eyes that make her feel very cold inside. Maybe that's just the house, and the way there's nothing in most of the rooms, just the sound of the District wind whistling through it, trying to strike up the Mockingjays. What makes her feel alone, most of all, is Cato, just a body in the sheets. She wants to say that she loves him, that it's the same as it was in the arena, where she'd scream for him, and live and die by his side.

The truth is, of course, that Clove isn't sure she feels anything anymore. But, here, married, she is resigned to this fate, wasting away months in this empty house, and then at night, in the arms of a man she does not love, counting the kicks from a child that will bind them together.

The Surplus might ease her loneliness. He can't be entirely useless he must know how to speak or garden or cook. His only skill can't be blubbering pathetically. All of the others had time embedded and were taken from their families, and they managed to keep it together. The boy is weak, she thinks, but he'll soon toughen up. With Cato, as sadistic as he can be, the Surplus will have to.

She thinks about the feast at the cornucopia, and how Cao was so quickly upon her, how he kissed her. They have never kissed like that again, not even on their wedding night. They fuck, often enough that she doesn't search for physical attention outside of him. But that's all it is, an action. He doesn't feel or speak. It's a silent contest not to make a noise, not to let the other win. Clove often bites her lip in victory, grinning to herself as Cato grunts through his orgasm. He loses, she thinks, but that's the only thing he ever lets her win at.

Clove cannot help despising Cato as he sleeps, no nightmares tonight, but probably dreams of somewhere else with somebody else. He's beautiful, she knows, and can afford no better term for him. Even now, I sleep, his flaxen shock of hair looks soft and his lips look inviting. His enormous arms never fix themselves around her, and she wonders, for the longest time, isn't she pretty enough, isn't funny enough, isn't enough for him. It's the worst feeling in the world.

Unable to stand the sound of his breathing any longer, she tries herself out of the sheets and into the hallway, adjusting her nightgown (silk with gossamer end, which Cato had brought her from District 8, the thing so expensive that the people couldn't believe they had sold it). It's always cold here, in this house, and there are no flowers, nothing to fill the smell of paint, and unhappiness. It's not as if Cato sees any of it, ever, anyway, he's always at the academy, sword-fighting and fencing or in town, finding a spot to drink and be admired.

The irony lies in the fat that Cato loves Clove more than she loves him. He's just not good with words. He's just better with violence.

Clove can't bear to think of him no longer and she calls down to the boy who sleeps in the pantry, the other blonde, quite cute, but not with that arrogance Clove used to love. The one that she initially fell for. "Surplus." Her voice is shot down the darkening stairs and projected back at her. "Surplus Peeta?"

After a long pause, Peeta shuffles out from the surly pantry floor and into the hallway, behind the kitchen. He's still in white, the same, standard white that they all wear, as Surpluses. He wears this set for three days as his work clothes, and then his recreational whites become his work clothes until they get washed. It saves water, which they don't want to waste on lowly scum form outline Districts. A lump of coal is worth so much back home. Here, Clove takes no note that she has enough to eat, and it makes Peeta want to scream.

"How can I help you, miss?" He says, trying to sound breezy and upbeat, trying to brighten up the place, as young Surpluses are supposed to do. The duty to be beautiful. She stares at him, more of a glare, and considers what to say.

"Make me a drink." At last, the lady speaks. He keeps thinking she'll call out his name and he'll feel Katniss' fire against his legs, but she never looked this way, she never cared. The girl on the stairs is hard to see as so cold and bloodless; her face is flushed and she's swaying, quite a bit. A far cry from that girl on the screen, the one who screamed for her love, and what love? Peeta nods, knowing his Place.

"Certainly. Would your husband like anything?" There is no personality to his tone. Clove grimaces.

"I'm sure he can go without." She assures him. The silence between them is awkward and embarrassing. What can Peeta say? He's vastly uninteresting, and Clove won't care about his nightmares just as he doesn't ask about hers. He wants to keep a low profile anyway, he wants to lip their minds so that if Cato goes into a fit of rage he won't come looking for his Surplus, who 'deserves it'. "Water, please." She does not look so well, and he thinks it might help her.

Peeta nods his head and turns away, going back into the kitchen. What he sees makes him sick: full cupboards and fresh breads. Meats and spices and processed foods, which are rare, back at home, expensive, unpopular. There is no squirrel, fresh from the woods, and no stew with dog's meat carelessly tossed in. It makes Peeta feel faint just to see it, and he wonders if he could somehow get it home, to his brothers, to Prim, the girl who suffered most out of Clove's victory.

They have literally nothing in their cheese box, either. Over here, and in most rich Districts, they call it a refrigerator and put eggs and margarine and perishables in the cool, with their one, processed, measly bit of cheddar. Peeta loved to sample all the different kinds at home. He would sometimes rise early and bake pear tart with gruyere stuffed crust.

She follows after him, and Peeta snaps out of his trance, working on the task at hand, ignoring the throbbing in his wrist. It hurts, and it might always hurt, but nobody in these Districts buys a Surplus because they think of them as actual people. That would be absurd, to find intelligent life in the humans of District 12. Well, Peeta cannot find any humanity here, so he supposes it evens out.

Worst comes to worst when Clove takes a seat at the diner and holds her head. "Get me an aspirin." She orders him. "I've such a headache."

They gave one to Peeta when they tore out the flesh of his am. How curious that they take pills so carelessly here. Not even the Peacekeepers can afford to buy aspirin at home. He has memorised the kitchen, so that he'll not make a mistake and earn a beating out of the venomous career still sleeping. So far as first days, or mornings, go, this has been bearable.

When he returns, Clove looks dangerously pale. Her eyes are bloodshot and they roll around in their pink sockets, looking anywhere but Peeta, as if he evokes some kind of horrible memory, as if he cannot stand the sight of her.

"Thankyou." She says, dismissing him when he's done his job. Clove hates the way his eyes look or the way he stares at her, and worst of all, the past he unearths, of being owned, and commodified. How has Cato so easily forgotten when it still plagues her horribly?

She sways, again, and grips the side. "Peeta." She hisses, urgently. Within a minute, he's at her side. "Surplus, help me."

The helpless woman can barely hold herself up against the table's surface and looks so desperately at Peeta, expecting miracles, expecting knowledge from the Baker's son, and Peeta is reminded of his mother again because he cannot help. Useless Peeta, stupid, stupid by and she was right about him always, it just takes this to prove it. He flounders, doubling back to the hall. ~

"I should wake your husband." He says, afraid. "He'll be able to help you."

"No-" Clove's voice is just a whisper. She closes her eyes, and Peeta is scared that she might not open them so quickly if she continues like this. "Not Cato," She begs him. Not the husband she despises, because he is always looking at other beauties, other blondes but he never turns to Clove to say 'I only nee' because it's not her, it's never her, and it makes any love between them once afraid, petrified and stunted.

Peeta looks at her, exasperated. He looks back down the hall and shakes his head. "I'm so sorry." And he goes to leave her, just like that.

Clove stands up, shakily, after him, and starts to shout. "Don't you dare, Surplus, I'll have you dead!" love steadies herself against the doorframe. Her face has gone purple. She takes a fistful of Peeta's collar and shakes him, weakly.

"Sir?" He calls up, again and again, trying to rouse the huntsman to seek worthier prey, and his wife, and happy nights to happier days but none come too quick. Clove slaps him.

"You will not disobey me!" She screams. Her eyes go flush and her grip loosens. "You will not-" She gets no further. Her body softens and she completely falls, slack, into Peeta. Her eyes slip shut and she fades from consciousness.

A noise breaks from the silence of upstairs. Cato is awake.


	5. Act 2, Scene 2

Somewhere between infinity and nothingness, Cato wakes.

It's not dreams that wake him verging on heaven and hell, leaving him standing waist-deep in the purgatory of drowsiness. He thinks of the heaven he'd dreamed, of her, always of Clove, standing in the sunshine of an evening. The scent of her skin was the same as always, the air around her swollen with violets and a perfume of tulips. That's what wakes him up: the cold, odourless air of the room from where the window is open.

There is no Clove besides him, to assure his nightmares back into fables. Her image isn't enough, but it seems she's vanished from the room, having left no happy drop of her intoxicating perfume to let Cato back into sleep. He turns onto his back and stares into the darkness, thinking about the house, so big, too big, and how the wind whistles right through it, like the mockingjays. The birds remind him of the arena. Everything does, but their song, most of all.

It wasn't until after the bloodbath, when everything fell into silence that he registered them. They sang, to mourn the dead, and Cato was overcome with shame, at everything he had turned out to be.

Still, in this dead, haunted night, nobody dares to sing. The piano sits downstairs, untouched, unloved for the most part. Sometimes, when Cato was staying in the Capitol before the games, he would think about the house he's have, with Clove. It was a fantasy, then, because only one of them could be the victor. But in his head, in his daydreams when he was sure nobody could read his face, there was a big house with a proud garden, that smelt like violets and was filled with music, with joy and vitality.

He used to wonder, how would she be, his lady? Clove didn't love, she never had done, biting her tongue and trying to cut Cato's out. Of course, this was Cato's desires, it was his fantasy, and why not? In his head she smiled more and she kissed him and she meant every damn word she uttered to him, all of the 'I love yous' and they were normal, Jesus, people could be around them without fear. When Cato whistles with the mockingjays, he not only mourns the dead, but every different version of this life that died before it could bloom.

Worst part is, Cato believed himself. He'll believe almost anything.

When he was first selected as tribute, Cato's mother turned to him and said 'You will make this District proud'. He believed her then, he knew it. Ceaser Flickerman had turned to him and said 'You're a very strong contender' and Cato had already guessed that much, he was told and he believed it, he ate up all of the Capitol's affection. They strive so hard for beauty, and that is what a victor is supposed to be: beautiful. 'We're made it' Clove gasped to him, that night on top of the cornucopia, as the hovercraft lowered itself to the ground. He believed her, he wanted to so badly.

Cato chose to ignore the cold light in her eyes when she first said 'I love you' or even 'I do'. He shut his eyes to her tears, and her absolute terror, not fear, but terror when Clove trembled in his arms and whispered 'we're going to have a baby, Cato'.

Now, he is alone with his thoughts and it cuts worse than any of the times she's sliced hi with any knife or dagger. No, Cato tried to assure himself. If she didn't love him, even the smallest part, even the littlest bit, she wouldn't share his bed, they wouldn't fuck sometimes, often, too often, silent and strange but _familiar_ and_ good_. Eyes to eyes and nose to nose and tearing off eachother's skin and clothes and nervous systems until they stand both physically and emotionally naked, clawing at the skin they find.

Cato hears her out in the hall. The sound of her voice slips through the white-hot crack in the doorway and sleeps next to Cato, so desirable and naked and ready and made for him, the curve of the bones to fit his. It's right, the thinks, but Clove stays outside, she doesn't look to want. She leaves him for the company of that Surplus.

Useless, cold-footed swine. She pinched his name out of thin air, and he pathetic Surplus just sobbed all the way home, trying to keep his blubbering quiet At least he's domesticated, Cato thinks, Not like the strays of Districts 11, that can do nothing but farm, and what good would that be in a city, where the only plants are vain flowers, that look upon themselves as modestly as their owners? What makes him so special, that he breaks when all of the other Surpluses remain steadfast? They have all shared his experiences.

Cato's mind turns back to Clove, downstairs. He can hear her murmurs, but not clearly enough to fathom words from the white noise still ringing in his ears. The best way of dealing with it is to drink, or to fight, to find some cocky, skilled Career at the academy and go at it until one is bleeding or both are weary. Clove has never found leave to pick up a knife since the Games. They haunt her, the feel of the weight in her hands. Instead, she sticks to the town, and spends Cato's money.

He sits up in bed when he hears her protesting. Her voice is stretched, and it's unlike to Clove to show any weakness, ever, it's unlike her to let anybody in, so Cato starts to panic, as anybody would, and he strives to hear the words. The Surplus, first, dutiful and useless, but then the unmistakable protests of Clove, and something that Cato tries to regard with no importance.

'Not Cato' she begs him. It's a strange way of saying she's supposed to love him.

It's not long before she is screaming, and Cato doesn't care, he feels himself moving before he can help it. This is Clove, as she has always been, his love, first, and his wife, the reason he both lives and is alive. Who could ask for any more? Like not so long ago, Cato leaps into alertness and searches the darkness for direction and a friend.

She threatens the boy with death, as always, that's Clove. But then, she breaks out into hysterics, and starts to howl.

"You will not disobey me!" She cries out "You will not—" But her words rot and fall away. Cato starts to panic. He jumps to his feet. Clove always makes a point to finish everything. What has happened to her that she's fallen quiet so quickly, o that she screamed? Cato thinks of the feast, of Thresh, and he races out into the hall, stumbling back in blindness before finding his way down the stairs.

In a fluster, he finds them, in the kitchen, and his blood boils.

Clove's body is limp and almost lifeless. Her face is fresh with colour and she looks as if she's asleep. No more fury, but peace, and sleepiness is thankful on her features. Her eyes are closed and calm. Her lips are parted slightly in such a way that invites kissing, even though she hates it; even though she insists Cato never kiss her. Her hair has fallen over her face, and one shoulder, a waterfall of sin black. She's so thin, too, and pale, angelic but in a dark way. Cato thinks how personal this side of her is, and how rarely it is seen.

But mostly how the Surplus has his arms fixed around her, holding her up.

Cato feels his face go pink with all of his rage, and while he wants to be rational and merciful and patient, his nature disallows it, and all he finds is jealousy that she's here, alone in the dark with a God-dammed Surplus, and she had begged him, not Cato, never Cato when they are supposed to be together. That was how it started, back in their early days, when Clove started to throw knives and Cato discovered his mean streak. They broke things, nobody cared. They shared a mutual bloodlust and that was it, a match made in heaven, or hell, or the purgatory that Cato woke up wading in.

He can smell her tulip perfume, and that's the final straw.

In his white-hot rage, Cato tears Clove from his arms, still asleep, unconscious, oblivious and so damn beautiful. The force is such that Peeta topples backwards, landing in a sitting position, scurrying back across the kitchen floor in fear. IT all feels so familiar, that when Cato goes to think of some kind of threat or warning, anything at all to make sure Peeta knows his Place, no words spring to mind, nothing, but the words of a slaughtered youth. Raising a nasty finger with his free hand, Cato addresses him.

"You get this once." He chooses his words very carefully. "If it happens again-" his breathing is rough with all of that panic and he chances a look down at Clove, so feverish, and peaceful. Did she faint? Was it the heat of today, that desert, or the slain dignity of that little lion carving? It doesn't matter, he knows, she's fine, she's breathing.

Peeta looks so terrified. Just like a child, and he's trembling with that same fear. Cato wants to call him pathetic, but he can't muster it, and instead finds pity, where there should be fury.

"I'm so sorry," Peeta whispers. Sorry to be found like this? Cato cannot be sure. All he knows is that they both are so very sorry indeed, from their very souls, that she had begged for somebody anybody but Cato.

"Get gone." He snaps, and the boy scrambles, terrified, all legs, over his own feet and into the darkness of the other end of the kitchen. Cato isn't sorry to miss him from Clove's form. He might never hear to which front her loyalties lie. Certain they are alone, he adjusts Clove's body, so that her head rests on his shoulder and that her back is supported with one of his arms. Shyly, he places a hand to her forehead and feels the beads of sweat forming. The poor, feverish thing.

In the hours that pass, his lady sleeps.

Peeta remains in the pantry, terrified to show his face to Clove, who will feel betrayed, and most of all Cato, who could have killed him, in such anger. He thinks about these people who he is owned by, and knows so little about. All he knows for sure is that they're victors, and they won by murdering a boy from District 12, of no description, and with him the Girl on Fire, Peeta's girl, his lady, his love, only if that she knew she were.

Upstairs, of course, there is waiting, and the man who whistles with the mockingjays. Sometime later, a slender man, in a Surplus uniform and a green pin, is shown into the house by Cato, and lead upstairs, to Clove, still so small and still asleep. It' s none of his business, but Peeta feels the smallest bit of responsibility, and he lingers on the top of the stairwell, trying to hear, trying to see if Cato is still in s rage, or if he's going to make it a week, maybe, as their Surplus.

Oh, Jesus. Peeta sinks to his knees and takes a few deep breaths. It's so easy to forget, but the dull cache in his wrist, the feeling as each minute slips by reminds him that he's on somebody else's time now, not his own. Was he ever? Peeta thinks how he was least loved by his mother, and how this was always going to be his fate. They knew, didn't they, the moment he was born, that he was going to be sold and owned and commodified because that's all he was worth.

He feels himself go taught with anger. Why should he care at all about these people? These monsters? Creatures that he doesn't know, but has seen murder. They took Katniss from those she didn't belong to and now they've taken him, with his humanity surgically removed, and replaced with nothing but time, minutes. Peeta looks down at his wrist, the component staring back at him, and he thinks about tearing it out, letting the wound re-open and bleed. But he knows deep down what he's trying to destroy is buried deeper, and much harder to get at. The pale skin of his wrist just seems so defenceless and innocent. He decides against it.

From inside of the bedroom, he can hear them talking in hushed whispers. His anger has dissolved into something he can ignore, for now. If he wants to survive with Cato's temper and Clove's strange demands, he'll have to keep pretty invisible. They're talking, and he struggles to listen. The walls in this house are thick and well-built. It is the masonry District, and the Capitol's favourite, for not rebelling. Peeta despises that: they make generations pay for the actions of others.

"And she often complains of dizziness?" The voice is unfamiliar, so Peeta concludes that it must belong to the white-wearing man. Of course, there's no noise from Clove, which makes Peeta assume she's still asleep. Or unconscious. He still isn't sure exactly what happened, if she fainted or anything like that. Maybe it's best that way. Still, the murmurings continue and he keeps quiet, straining to hear. "That's not uncommon."

"It isn't?" Cato sounds very serious. More so than he did in the Games, leading the way, setting his eyes on prey and shouting 'twelve down and eleven to go!'. He must love her a great deal more than he made anybody believe.

"Perfectly normal." That voice is soft and assuring. Maybe if Peeta could be so persuasive, and sound so in control of things, Cato wouldn't have snapped, he wouldn't have assumed. It's not going to be easy if they both think Peeta has eyes for the girl with the knives. "Keep her hydrated," The man still sounds so engaging. Even Peeta, out in the hall, having no right to eavesdrop, wants to take his advice and follow it to the letter. "Avoid stressful situations."

Cato seems to take it in. "They're going to be fine, right?" The other man lets out a chuckle, not unkindly.

"Not unless she hit anything on the way down. That, and wounded pride, of course."

In a rare moment of kindness, Peeta swears he can hear Cato speaking through a smile, a genuine one, of happiness rather than bloodlust or something else more devious. "Thank you," He says, that he would never say to his own Surplus, too useless to be thankful for, and better still, it's his duty, if he wants to support home, the forgotten paradise, that smell of flowers that were picked and bread. There are no flowers here, save for the places Peeta cannot reach, cracks within the place.

"If you have any more questions, you know where to find me," And it's not just cordialities. They fall silent again, and Peeta assumes that's the end of their conversation. After a few minutes, in the darkness, he can hear the door groan and he steps back, forcing himself down a few stairs, trying to look busy. Of course, it's a staircase (a glass one, at that, a feature Clove had picked because she liked the feeling of floating when on the steps) and there's not an awful lot you can pretend to do. Moments pass in the way whispers tear through a crowd.

The white-wearing passes him on the stairs, and his eyes are the most visible part, all silver with age. He nods sadly to Peeta, as if he knows that fate and more. The green pin is in the shape of a cross, the sign of a medic, of some description. Peeta didn't know you could get medical Surpluses. At least, you can't from District 12, because nobody is trained. They say nothing as he leaves, so Peeta turns back to the conversation, or moderate silence, with the others.

He creeps up a few steps, and can just about see, through the gap in the door. It's not much, visually, but dark and his eyes take a moment to adjust, pupils dilating to find vision in the black, to make out shapes and colours, and finally people. Clove sleeps on her side, facing away from him, and Cato is above the sheets, his arm fixed around her, the other being as something to lean on. He considers something to say, or do, before dropping his mouth onto her shoulder.

"It's too cold in here," Clove mumbles, just to be difficult. Cato lifts his head, at first in surprise, but then he smiles, and it doesn't look like anything Peeta has ever seen, this genuine look of glee, like he's found a secret pleasure and he's clinging to it.

"It would be, wouldn't it?" He counters. "You took quite the fall, darling."

"Shut up," Clove says, quickly. It makes Cato even hungrier for something to pry out of her.

"I never struck you for the fainting type, love, I always figured-" The mute noise of somebody getting slapped rings out in the darkness. Peeta finds himself smiling at this, and he's not sure why. It takes all he has not to laugh, too. For a second, Cato is tense, and surprise is colouring hiss features, but he brightens quickly, and turns back to her.

"Light of my life," She choruses, flatly. "Be very careful about how you finish that sentence," So, it seems he heeds her warning and remains mute, becoming slack and falling against her again, fixing her in this impossibly tight embrace. It's almost childlike: he's seen something he likes, and he doesn't want to let go, for the life of him. Clove isn't any more mature, wriggling for her own space. After a few minutes, they both fall into stillness, and Cato kisses her.

"I was worried." He whispers.

"You don't get points for caring."

"You could have been hurt," It's almost as if he doesn't hear her at all. Maybe Clove would answer back with something equally soft and loving but it appears she cannot summon it right now. After a while, she gets something out.

"But I wasn't." She mumbles.

"Clove." His tone grows serious and more mature. "Fine, maybe _you_ wouldn't have been hurt, but that doesn't mean-" The girl flares up.

"This isn't the arena, anymore! I don't need you to look after me!" And for once, Cato doesn't even try to fight her. He seems to consider what to say a great deal, like the situation is slippery, that it must be handled with the utmost care.

"I want you both well," his voice is barely audible. Clove grumbles.

"Go the fuck to sleep."

And for a minute, it seems she's got her way and they both adjust themselves to go to sleep. Peeta wonders about how they work, if it's love or lust or something deeper, and a lot harder to see. But, ever the deviant, he leans up to whisper just once more.

"I love you."

What they both are struck with is the answer Cato never gets back.


	6. Act 2, Scene 3

It's much easier to get by in District 2. Peeta realises this quickly.

Back home, getting ill isn't taken lightly, it could be fatal, and wasting food would make anybody at the Seam blush. People help eachother out, but they all mutually struggle. It's fashionable to be clean, make-up is unheard of. Girls and boys alike aren't pressured to modify themselves much at all. Nobody has the money to drink, or take the little white pills that Peacekeepers sometimes slip the richest folks. Being alive in achievement enough.

It's not like that here. And it makes him want to scream.

Waste is ignored, there are no rations on water or food. Sometimes, at al fresco cafés, he can see people throwing out food, good and fresh bread t birds, where at home it would be eaten in tiny amounts, it would be expected to last. Illnesses can be cured, they can rebuild you, they have the parts, with pills and surgery, and take-two-of-these-a-day. Sometimes, at parties, they actually purge, to at more, as a way of enjoyment.

Nobody at home would even consider that. It's another form of wasting food, and the little you get down you has to stay there, and sustain you for as long as possible. What is this strange rabbit-hole he has explored? The garish Capitol fashions that creep into the patterns on their clothes, and the sharp heels of their shoes. Girls take razors to their legs, they cover their faces in white or green.

As a Surplus, it's not his place to stare or question, and he must always Know his Place. That's the mark of a Valuable Asset. But how can Valuable can Peeta be to these people, who would so freely injure themselves, cut away what makes them natural?

Peeta doesn't want to help any of them. He especially doesn't want to help his owners, Clove, who killed so freely, but couldn't fake a bit of love, even after all she's got? God's brad, it makes his skin feels aflame thinking about it. Peeta would gladly spend his life tied to a woman he felt nothing for if it would feed his family, if it would do anybody some good. And here she is, that same murderous girl, soaring through he moments of gilded wings.

Of course, Cato isn't much better. Peeta wouldn't chance another confrontation with him if he wanted to stay alive. All of that temper, and for what? It's funny how he expects Clove's love, after the way they talk to eachother, the way they so freely take such cheap shots at every opportunity.

It's easy for him to judge, he knows. But he can't help these people, they need miracles, and he's not even supposed to be here, he's supposed to be tucked in bed, at home, above the kitchen, with the windows open, with flour down his shirt, asleep and dreaming more ambitious little dreams. Clove might listen to him, once, but he has no suggestions for her. If she doesn't love him, why wouldn't she leave? What stops her as she stands on the edge of the world? Cato would spear him through the heart before words could crawl out of his mouth, so he won't risk that.

That's Peeta all over, he can't help helping. Only now, it's sort of his job.

They need all the help they can get, because a war starts that night.

After Clove is so quiet, it sends Cato into another temper. Not right away, of course. It's gradual, like falling asleep, or falling out of love. There are no flowers in this house, and Peeta hears him in the cool air.

"Clove?" His voice is unsure, not something that suited him very much at all. Peeta wonders what he would do, like a sword with to edges. If he would plead, perhaps, cut off his skin and stand there emotionally naked, ready for Clove to pour acid all over his skin, or if he'd snap, which is more likely, let's be honest.

Still, the girl remains so quiet, too silent, like a wrong hushed-up and there are no more flowers there. Peeta can feel himself begging her, answer him! Lie to him! Anything but this deafening silence, that sets everybody on edge. Clove seems to brace herself. Would Cato lay a hand on her? Worrying so much about her safety that he'll crush her if he doesn't get what he wants? The thought makes Peeta dizzy. At home, everybody has it hard. It's rare that anybody is bold enough to make it harder, by starting a fight.

"Go to bed," She says, after a while. It sounds too weak and defensive. That the best she can do? Not even a false 'I love you', not even some kind of excuse or platitude? Peeta, for the very first time, can understand Cato's fury.

"I said that I lo-"

"I heard you!" Clove snaps. She pulls back from his form, pressing herself into the pillow, her hair dripping down her side. Her voice comes softer and more afraid. "I heard you, Cato." But what she's really saying was something else entirely. She's pleading with him, not to hurt her. "I'm just…tired. We can talk in the morning."

Peeta can just about see a hand, an enormous hand reach out and grab Clove by the wrist she has lifted.

"We can talk about it now." He grinds out, furious. She struggles against him, but he is infinitely stronger, and her body flops like a fish on a line, thrashing against him.

"Cato-" She whimpers. "You're hurting me!" It grows into a cry, not of anger, but of fear and pain. Peeta can see her scraping for purchase. But finding none under his impossible grip. Cato must be really furious, because he never hints at letting go, but appears to grab tighter, twisting her arm at an awkward angle. Clove tried to remain resilient, but she's weak and tired and he's so much more relentless. She screams out again. "Let me go-"

So he does.

The girl is red in the face and gasping. She doesn't hesitate to slap him, as hard as she can., and Cato's face goes flush where her hand had been. Just this once, he seems oo angry to allow himself to strike back. Instead, he just stares at her, his face unreadable with emotionlessness. After a while, after an eternity of just the two staring at each other, Clove catching her breath, he finally fathoms his thoughts into words, and not a moment too soon.

"Do you despise me?" He asks, in a very out-of-character voice. It's too heavy with sadness, and he's not usually that forward. At least when Cato was hurting her, and shouting at her, she was all Cato could think about. But now, he's going to be thinking of himself, and their baby.

"I don't know." Clove murmurs. She doesn't, really. Neither of them have ever been delusional enough to expect a grand gesture of affection, but Cato had always had it figured, in his head, when nobody could read his face, that Clove loved him and wanted to spend her time with him. That all of their petty insults are another way of saying 'I love you' and 'I do' one more time.

Cato has grown accustomed the feeling he feels when his heart looks out of his eyes and sees her sleeping next to him.

Truth is, maybe Clove doesn't despise him, but he despises himself for ignoring the cold in her eyes when she

Peeta is sure he's about to get strangled when he sees Cato move away from her, he gets up leaves, too calm to be okay. Peeta can hear his heart running miles in his chest and he starts to panic, oh Jesus, he saw how Cato was in the kitchen, when Clove just passed out, so quick to be jealous, even if their love isn't equal or even real. Is he's caught listening, will Cato strangle him? Will he get so worked up that he snaps Peeta's neck, just like the boy in the Games. (Peeta had been watching in the public house, and the sound of each vertebrate crunching, and then just the mournful Mockingjay whistle makes him to this very day nauseous.)

He creeps back down the stairs, hurried, and turns back into the kitchen, terrified that Cato will catch him. Worst comes to fruition when he hears a voice calling after him.

"Coat, Surplus." Cato snaps. He doesn't dare to look at Peeta directly, and it doesn't even matter, it shouldn't, but this isn't how it's supposed to be. Peeta could get by when he hated them, it will be so much harder if he feels pity. So poor that all they have is money, an unenviable and wasted existence.

Frantic, Peeta lets out a breath and heads under the stairs, where they keep their coats and jackets. As he unhooks Cato's jacket, he gets the heavy scent of violets and tulips and notices Clove's small jacket, untouched and solitary on a hook. It is as black as her hair and Peeta wonders about her, but not for very long. This was always going to be easier when they were monsters, and murderers, but not real people.

Cato pauses on the stairwell, in a reverie, and Peeta feels like an intruder when he hands the coat over, trying to keep invisible and unimportant and silent. He looks at his owner, his victor, and it's the first time he's really seen the man up close. There are three very faint white marks where his skin had been torn by the muttations. Cato looks taller than Peeta remembers, and paler too, more ill, somehow. The sadness makes him look old beyond his years, where usually his arrogance hides his weaknesses, his fault lines, and makes him appear boyish and youthful. To indeed be a god, if only for a short while.

Reminded of who he is, somewhat, Cato straightens and his face becomes unreadable again. He heads for the front door, and spares no glance back. All of a sudden, the house is emptier, and much more silent, with no flowers or music, but the horrors of political love, and affection that acts as the flower but remains as the serpent beneath it. Peeta watches where he'd stood for a long time, wading waist-deep in his own thoughts, his desire to help but being paralysed by the marks on his wrist, him being a Surplus.

Up the half-known step, Peeta lingers by the bedroom door again. They both deserve what they're getting, in a way, but that's not who Peeta is, he always far too centred on forgiveness and kindness for his own good. He goes to knock, but stops when he hears that unmistakeable noise that he would sometimes hear from his mother's room, on the worst of occasions.

Clove is crying. Through the door he can hear every sob, and how she gasps, in between for air. Maybe she doesn't realise it, but that right there, those tears and that pain in her chest, sharp and strangely enduring, is her saying 'I love you' back to Cato, even if she doesn't know it yet. Assured, Peeta brings himself to knock.

"Do you need anything?" He asks, in a careful tone of voice. There's no telling what she'll be like: if Clove will become violent or overcome with her emotions. She's a hard woman to predict, and it makes Peeta nervous, unsure of each action he takes around her. After all, why should Clove be on his side? He went against her very basic instructions; he called up for Cato when she begged him not to. There's not likely to be any camaraderie between the two of them at current.

Upon hearing him at the door, Clove tries to muffle her own crying, and act as if she's above it all, above feeling for the tribute she followed close to, and was saved by, and married, and fucks, on occasion. It strikes her as ironic, laying in their bed that smells like her perfume but of him, too, of Cato's own identity. She remembers being able to smell it all over that girl from District 1, the name slips her mind, but the fate doesn't. It felt good, in a wrong kind of way, when she got what was coming to her.

The moment that nest hit the floor, Cato went for her, and her alone. He's built, see, and the stings had to be a lot more concentrated to get to him. Clove has always been small, and thin, and they acted fast on her. He carried her body to the lake and woke her, as soon as it was over, having removed the stingers from her, having made sure she stayed alive. The last girl that flaunted Cato's' attention was pitilessly murdered. How ironic.

Peeta remains outside, and she feels the need to speak to someone, or she'll choke on all of the words and sentiment that needs out of her body right away. Clove sits up and wipes at her eyes, trying to appear in control of the situation. She isn't normally so weepy, but then again, she doesn't very well often faint, either. It is at moments like these when Clove wonders if all of this is even worth it, sealing her future with somebody she isn't even sure she loves by bringing a child into an apparently loveless marriage. She can change her mind at literally any time. While the District has many laws, you don't have to travel far for a miracle cure, where long needles are injected into the swollen bellies of Capitol women seeking an alternative to scandal.

"Did you hear any of that?" She asks, sniffing. There is a pause on the other side of the door. Peeta considers himself.

"That depends." He says, evenly. "Do you think I heard any of it?" Clove finds herself laughing, comforted by somebody else in this empty house, more flowers, and none that bite. At least talking to a Surplus means that she can't be cornered or hurt. Cato always tries to stop the bleeding with a knife, and they both end up getting sliced to bits.

"I think you heard all of it." She says, quietly. "I think you heard every word and you're laughing at us."

Peeta's voice is so soft, and so full of sympathy that Clove cannot be sure he's really sincere. "Why would I laugh at you?" the Surplus asks, and it stuns her, humbles her into silence. She expected a horrible little thing, one that would despise her, and treat her badly whenever Cato wasn't around to serve as a threat. She has forgotten, and forgiven, his minor trespasses.

"People are starving in your District." She says, trying to sound reverent enough, and not flippant. It's hard to, because it is such a casual topic, such a trivial thing here and in the Capitol. Parents chastise their children, and say 'you should eat all of your dinner, people in poor Districts have nothing to eat at all. You should be grateful'. Hearing Peeta's kindness, she feels ashamed, and vows to herself never to say that to any child of hers.

Suddenly, he pushes on the door, and appears in the arch, looking small, but always so steady. Clove turns to face him, pulling the covers around herself. Her gaze softens a little. She isn't so obnoxious, or bloody-minded by nature, it's something Cato brings out in her. She doesn't know why, or even if she could yell any louder, shout any fiercer. It's because neither of them know how to say anything else.

"Well, I'm not laughing," He says, neatly. Clove nods, swallowing that awful feeling Cato had left her with. She stares at him, nearly confused.

"No," She says, a bit lost. "You're not." She cuts her eyes from side to side before speaking again. "Is Cato gone?" Peeta nods and it gives leave for her to become even more misty-eyed. She covers her eyes for a second and sniffs. "God help us if he's drinking." She says.

"What happens if he's drinking?" Clove smiles faintly. She avoids answering the question, and Peeta lets her.

"It's so easy to forget that people marry for love, in poorer Districts." Her voice is dreamlike and dangerous. Peeta shifts, and her gaze returns to him, soft and interested. If he shuts his eyes and thinks hard enough, he can pretend that he's among friends again, that Clove couldn't have him strung him up over a tree so fast it's not even funny. Peeta sits on the edge of the bed.

"What did you marry Cato for?" Because he really doesn't know. He assumed it was love, when the Games was aired, and they were, without airs, the lovers of District 2 that nobody really liked but everybody secretly rooted for. Hope, and love, above all things, was the only thing stronger than death. When Clove had screamed for Cato, his love had overtaken his fear of dying, and he'd cleared Thresh away, forgotten all about poor, poor Katniss. In that moment they were perfect. And they were in love.

Clove shrugs. "It doesn't matter now." She pats her ever-so-slightly-distended stomach, by way of illustrating her conundrum. Her hands have been tied before, but not like this, not with wire that tears and burns her flesh night and day.

"Of course it matters." Peeta says, sounding strangely certain. He frowns. "You can't tell me you didn't love him at some point."

"I don't know!" Clove snaps. It makes Peeta jump back, and remember His Place. Suddenly, he isn't so comforting, but trying to seem small, and insignificant. Sighing, Clove runs a hand through her fringe. "I don't know." She exhales. "And what would be the point? He's always at the academy, or in town,." Peeta smiles.

"We don't have that distraction, back home." It makes Clove laugh, again.

"I guess you don't." She says. Then, she processes his words and points a finger at him. "Hey, you _were_ listening!" Peeta holds up his hands.

"Even if I wasn't, it's still obvious." He explains, with this look on his face that's patient. Peeta smells of grain, not flowers, but flour. "It's like back home," his eyes become glassy with the memory, and Clove dares not interrupt. "Maybe I've never been caught, but everybody knows I secretly love throwing oranges at our priest. Hell, even the priest knows." Thinking about home has both of them in a painful silence. Clove looks down at her hands, anywhere but Peeta, and finally finds the courage to speak.

"You must be anxious to get back." She mumbles. Peeta considers it, but when he's speaking, something else comes out of his mouth.

"You'd be surprised."

At exactly thirty-three minutes to four in the morning, the front door goes.

Peeta hears Cato treading up the stairs, more like staggering, silent, but stinking of something clear the peacekeepers drink and the damp, uncut hair of graves. He staggers upstairs and heaves the bedroom door open, looking around, seeking worthier prey than the darkness he is left with. The sheets remain empty and offering no comfort to him, so he turns away, unafraid to call her name, but unsre what she'll do.

He finds he, a few minutes later, looking out of the large window in the kitchen, at the large garden where there are no flowers growing, just grass. It takes a while for Clove to notice him, but the smell of alcohol hits her first and she spins, recognising Cat, his face pale with grief and his eyes swimming with everything he's been drinking. She will not meet them, or budge an inch.

"I don't want you here if you're drunk." Clove said, coldly. She looks down at the floor, and then finally up at Cato, who has the temerity to wear this horrible little smile, even now. "You should leave."

He takes a bold, uneasy step closer, and Clove tenses up, becoming terrified which pushes her to anger. "I said get out!" She snaps. But he doesn't permit her anything. His eyes are all red, and they roll, dramatically, as if somehow bored.

"Not until I've paid my whore." Cato stands right up next to her, so close that she can feel his breathing and taste what he's been drinking. The nightmares have driven him to barbiturates, some might in the week and his face looks somehow distorted because of it. His glare confuses her memory of the salient. All eyes are ice, but nothing happens.

Clove points a nasty finger at him. "I don't want you here, Cato." He laughs, mirthlessly.

"All I have to do is reach out and squeeze." He reminds her.

"You wouldn't dare." Clove hisses. She watches him carefully, aware of the storm on the verge of raging outside and that for some reason there are no flowers in their hose and it bothers her, it drivers her crazy and Clove is so busy thinking that she barely notices one of Cato's colossal hands pinning her against the wall until it's too late.

Furious, she spits at him. And like a cheap elastic band, Cato snaps.

In a moment Clove has gone from being pinned against the wall to being at least two feet off of the floor, supported only by the hand fixed around her windpipe. Her body thrashes desperately, and she batters her legs against Cato, and the wall with each desperate bucking, to be free of his grasp. It has no effect at all and pretty soon Clove is screaming bloody murder, clawing at his hands and arms so hard that he's bleeding a fair amount pretty quickly.

"Let me go!" She screams, eyes wild with terror, her face growing pinker and then redder and then purple as the air gets stuck in her lungs that feel like they are on the verge of exploding. All the while Cato's mouth is open, like he's unable to shut it, a manic sort of smile as if he finds her pain and torment pleasurable. He seems deaf to her pleas, and to the blood on his hands and arms. "Cato—please-"

His face turns dark and he's finally able to shut his mouth before speaking. "You made me believe that you loved me!" He screams. "I saved your life, from all of those other tributes, and from the tracker-" clove splutters and kicks her legs wildly to try and get free.

"Then I wish I were dead!" She howls, barely able to get enough air to fuel her howls. "I wish I were dead like them!"

It's as if somebody has said the magic words, and Cato lifts his other hand to her throat. He means to end it now.

"Peeta!" She screams out, in a feeble attempt to get some help. It only serves to anger Cato, who pulls her away from the wall before driving her back into it and growling. "Peeta!" Her voice is so weak, and her strugglings are becoming more and more pathetic. Cato knows he should let her go, but he cannot seem to wrestle control of his hand away from his emotions.

Clove's eyes are starting to flutter, and her face is livid. For a second, Cato thinks he's killed her.

Out of the darkness, he feels another pair of hands tear him away from her by the shoulders and Clove drops onto the marble kitchen floor, making the most inhuman noises, gasping for air and life to return to her.

"Peeta," She gasps out once more. Cato turns, his eyes blazing, at whoever dares interrupt him.

No mockingjays sing tonight. Clove can only watch.


	7. Act 2, Scene 4

Once, when Clove was fifteen, she fell from a scaffold at the academy and landed on her back. All of the air had rushed from her lungs and she remained motionless for a literal ten minutes, choking out, gasping for air as blood pooled in the back of her mouth, cutting off her breathing. That was long ago, and Clove thought she had long forgotten about it.

Only now does the sensation come running back.

By instinct, her body goes limp and she curls up. The air is too thin. She cannot seem to stomach it. The floor is dark and marble, streaks of white running through the cream and now Clove is spluttering, flecks of stark red coughed up on to the stone floor. The District of masonry, she remembers, and it seems so ironic that they called Cato vicious and carved out of stone, but she never laughs. Clove is sure she'll die. Her body shudders with desperate attempts at respiration, but it's no good.

Across the marble, Cato is unrecognizable. His body is shaking, but Clove isn't scared of that, it's his eyes. All of a sudden, the home around them fades and she's presented with the uncut hair of graves, the arena, and Cato stands over the body of a tribute, looking unsure of his reality. The blue has become soulless, nothing there to trade sympathy for rationality with.

Suddenly furious, Cato turns to see his interruption. The only thing that saved Clove from asphyxiation.

Peeta is too small to stand there, looking like that. He's too tiny to stick his chin out in defiance with this warm, oceanic eyes that say 'come here and say that' in less words, because the trouble is, Cato will, he'll march over and that will be it. Why isn't Peeta afraid? The baker boy, this insignificant, secondary Surplus, standing before a victory with raised hands, with this challenge written all over him.

For a second, his eyes flick to Clove and he seems actually happy, a whisper of a smile on his face when he's certain she's breathing. What does that look mean, and what should she make of it, when his eyes offer her flowers, this fragile blue all stuck with wreath (as his will son be, dead)?

He's still looking at her when Cato reacts. And Peeta is bleeding before he falls onto his shins.

Clove cries out, some unintelligible noise, still struggling with the air that remains devoid of oxygen. She cannot close her eyes to the horrors before her, and now Peeta is wiping at his mouth, teeth yellow with the plasma of his blood. He looks to Clove again, just this tiny sideways glance, and God's bread, Cato just flares up.

One of his enormous hands closes around Peeta's throat, but in a quick moment of panic, the smaller boy dips his head and sinks his teeth into Cato's wrist, so hard that it draws blood. It dribbles down Cato's arm and pools at Peeta's lips, making him some kind of monster, grotesque in the light, a confused memory. The victor cries out, bringing his other arm around and bringing it down so hard that Peeta is thrown against a countertop, the sharp of his cheekbone the first thing to make a blood-curling _crack_.

The rest of the boy's body seems to crumble, and he sinks against the door of the cupboard, an ugly gash following across the bridge of his nose. One of his eyes, is shut, the left one, twitching slightly in the pain. Soon, his flesh will be an ugly purple and swollen to the point of blinding him. Peeta spits the blood in his mouth out onto the marble floor and looks back up at Cato, who clearly isn't done, who seems to extract pleasure from this war.

Clove tries to pull herself up from the floor, but remains paralyzed, laying, watching. And still, against all wishes, Peeta is still watching her.

By the collar of his now-crimson specked shirt, Cato pulls the boy to standing and glares at him, considering what to do with helpless, worthless prey. Peeta struggles desperately, hard enough that he brings a hand across Cato's face and gouges, drawing blood again, right across those murderous blues. In a second, he's let to the floor as Cato staggers backwards, screaming profanities.

The boy scurries backwards on his feet, trying to come up with some kind of solution. For the first time, he's not looking at Clove, but he might as well be. She can see the gash across the face is pretty deep, and his eyes are the only thing visible through the ruby visage that gleams in the moonlight. His eye is still closed, weeping salt water, and his lips are strident with blood.

Cato isn't far from him, drawn to full height again, and Clove has seen him stand like that before, all temper. Something in clove breaks and she starts to lose air, scrambling to stand up, to drag herself across the floor somehow and return the debt of her life.

She is feeble. Cato is upon him before she can do anything at all.

Oh, Jesus, she can't tear her eyes away, and Peeta raises a pathetic hand, swinging towards Cato's face, the side that Clove strokes when she whispers to him, if she has ever meant a word of it. His tiny hand is lost in Cato's fist, and he begins to squeeze, lifting Peeta's entire body by just his wrist, dislocating it right away.

The poor boy, alas, is robbed of all of his words. She can see Cato calculating every single bit of pressure he exudes, jaw tight, but smiling maniacally, as if Peeta's helplessness, his abject agony is somehow hilarious.

The boy thrashes his body around and tries desperately to break free of Cato's hold, but it only worsens things, and soon his blue eyes look childish and his face becomes white. He flops like a fish on a line, gasping, throwing his form around from side to side. He's going to die. He's going to die and Cato's going to kill him and then he's going to walk back over to Clove and finish the job because he has lost his mind, poured whiskey on his nightmares until they have become good ideas.  
What makes all of them so sure is that Cato is growling, focused intensely on crushing Peeta until his bones are finer than flour. Clove isn't sure what he's doing to Peeta until she notices the thick, soupy strings of blood threading down Peeta's frail little arm, and how Cato's fingers are caked in the stuff. Over the sound of Peeta's insubstantial little breaths, staccato bursts of agony and trying to stay alive, they can ll hear this telltale crunch.

Clove is certain he's broken every single bone in Peeta's hand.

His eyes are wide, and Peeta can't close his mouth now, trying to drink the ammoniac because he cannot even breathe it, too staggered and too panicked, his eyes fixed on Cato's face, ruined with injury but so pleased, too pleased with this horrible predicament. The victor is too wound up in the feeling of Peeta's blood, steadily coursing down his arm, to even notice the boy's pleas for sympathy, for him to stop. When Peeta finally makes a noise, it s thie pathetic scratching at the back of this throat, the only begging he can do.

"Cato!" Clove rasps, pulling herself towards the both of them, slowly. Cato doesn't seem to hear her, still fixed on destruction. "Cato, let him go." She pleads, but barely, because there are dark marks forming around her throat that match Cato's fingers.

Peeta looks at her for a second, ruddy and covered in sweat and so frail, too fragile and for once Clove feels something, she wants to take him and hide him away from this place, where he does not belong, where there are no flowers.

"Please," She begs him. "Cato, you're going to kill him!" Peeta goes even paler, and his eyes flicker open and closed, overwhelmed with his torment, until he looks like he's going to heave. Cato still hasn't heard her. She needs to do better.

Peeta looks at her again. It wasn't me, says the boy with gun. That same Surplus with his finger in the dam seems to have run off, and flooding is inevitable.

"Stop it!" She wails. "You let him go!" At last, Cato turns, still not letting Peeta up.

"Quiet!" he snaps. His entire face is red, one eye scratched to bleeding, and his entire being shakes with absolute madness and fury beyond anything any of them could have imagined. This isn't who he is. This isn't who Clove once loved.

"You're going to kill him!"

At last, he lets go, turning on Clove, still collapsed on the floor, and holds that same bloody hand up to her. "I should have left you to die!" He screams. Then, at last, he starts to feel and Clove swears she can see something in him die. "That's what you wanted, isn't it?" She says nothing. "Isn't it!"

Behind him, Peeta looks close to passing out. Bones are visible through his hand, mangled pieces of skin hanging off here and there, a mess of unnatural white and pink and red. There is a mangled, unrecognizable mess of flesh where Peeta's hand should be. He sits there, in a daze, just staring at his hand, before he suddenly heaves to the side and vomits.

But he's alive.

Clove thinks she's okay, but then she breaks down into a fit of hysterics, and starts to sob furiously, her throat hoarse from a mixture of shouting and where Cato had grabbed her, and squeezed the life out of her. It's very difficult for a decent man to shout at anybody if they're crying, which is why it's often a good idea to cry when being shouted at by a decent man. It's not Clove's motive here, she simply can't control herself.

In a second, Cato goes from livid to soft, this ethereal side of him finally surfacing.

It seems all the damage he has done to Peeta has given him leave for peace, all of a sudden, so quick to forget Clove's trespasses when she looks so small, and helpless and afraid. He brings her into his chest and fixes his arms around her until she's completely enveloped in him. Cato's less bloody hand rubs her back, and they both try to pretend, they both try to forget it all.

She can still smell the drink on him, but Clove ignores it. Instead, she seeks comfort.

"What did I do?" Cato whispers to her. He looks down at her, his face still dirty with blood. "Are you okay?" She nods, trying to get some space. "Jesus Christ," He murmurs again, and runs a gentle finger along her neck. "I'm sorry," His voice goes from calm to overcome with emotion again, and maybe it;s real or maybe it's the drink but Clove is thanking every single star and god she can think of that he's no longer violent.

Cato pulls her body into his like a child with a teddy bear and moves slowly forwards and backwards, gently, so that she can breathe, and see, so that it calms her down just as well as him. It's only then Clove remembers Peeta, and pushes at Cato.

"Peeta?" She calls out weakly. He looks up at her, still in a daze, his mangled hand held close to his face as if he still doesn't believe it. His hair is matted with blood, the injury to his eye has started to swell, and he looks so young and helpless that Clove thinks of some tribute she'd put a knife in and wants to die.

What if that boy had been Peeta? Who cares too much, who tries to help, even when faced with death? Looking at his mutilated hand once more, Clove reacts. "Oh, God." She scrambles, slowly, across the kitchen floor and takes Peeta's wrist, trying to keep all of her food down when she examines his worst injury. Peeta looks up at her, still white as death, and stiff like rigor-mortis is setting in.

"Clove-" He whispers.

"Shut up." She says quickly. "Jesus, you've broken every bone in your hand." Peeta chances a look over at Cato, and then screams out as she moves his wrist. They look at eachother again, and Clove tries to keep him from vomiting again or fainting or screaming bloody murder. "You should have laughed at me when you had the chance." She says to him, quietly. Then she turns back to Cato, still out of his senses and shaking. "Cato?"

He can barely look at her. "I didn't mean to hurt you, I sw-"

"Shut up!" Her face is red, and when she shouts she can feel more blood at the back of her mouth. "Get a doctor." Cato stares at her, slightly open-mouthed, and Clove finally feels in control of herself again. "Go!" She cries out again, still more of a croak, from nearly dying. Peeta heaves again, turning to the side and getting out whatever is left in him. Cato scrambles to his feet and takes a few steps, before stopping.

"Clove, I lo-" Her ears are burning, and she doesn't even turn to him.

"Now's not the time." And he goes, knowing that it's best not to argue, staggering off the find help, or a phone, whichever comes first.

Clove is left alone in the dark of the kitchen. Peeta stinks of coppery blood and somehow, still flowers, grain, nature. His eyes are as blue as the Silverflow which runs further north in this District and his face is as ghostly and spectral as the moonlight that quivers through the kitchen window. She can see him, not by that, but by the light in the pantry left on by an angel, the one that now watches, with such patience.

"Why'd you help me?" She asks. It's torn out of her before she can help it. The boy smiles, kindly.

"You were brave," he whispers. "You reminded me of-" his voice catches, and the words that are born in his heart die on his lips as silence, slaughtered youth. "- a friend," The finish is safe, but clove knows better than to ask. She stands, shakily, and helps Peeta to a seat, at the end of the kitchen.

"What a sense of humour you have," She jokes, taking a large glass bowl out of the cupboard and filling it with water. It gets places in front of Peeta and Clove takes his wrist. Peeta yelps. "Don't be so dramatic."

The Surplus nods. "Sorry," He mumbles. "Has he done that before?" Again, Clove avoids the question. She studies Peeta's hand, crushed beyond any use, and then looks at him again. That gaze makes her want to answer, but she remains strong, because she has to. Her loyalties lie with Cato. "Clove." She pulls his wrist again and Peeta hisses.

"Fuck," she mumbles. "I'm sorry." Peeta looks her in the eyes again.

"It's nothing." The calm from which he speaks makes her blood turn to steam.

"You should have kept out of it." She snaps, suddenly, thrusting his hand into the water, and watching him struggle again, trying to remain calm but the agony fighting for control. He trembles, as if there are demons dancing in his body. "You don't Know your Place, Peeta, you had no right to do that-" Clove's words are messy, as if it pains her to lie.

Peeta tries to keep his voice steady, but it jumps with his pain. "He would have killed you-" the boy gasps. "-and I was supposed to let that happen?" Clove digs a nasty finger into his palm, and Peeta nearly screams.

"No!" Clove snaps at him. She slaps him around the face. "You're wrong, Surplus." her voice is ragged and unsteady with her emotions, and it makes her ashamed. "Cato loves me. He loves me and he didn't mean to hurt me." Peeta looks suddenly so betrayed.

"And I suppose you magically love him back, now?" He manages, never looking into her face, but down at the water, misty with blood, where his maimed fingers have become a bit more distinguishable through the mess of tissues and flesh. Clove swallows, caught off guard.

"He's a good man." She whispers. "He is. You can't imagine what Cato has been through," Peeta shrugs with his other arm, wincing a little.

"Y'know-" He takes a glance around the kitchen, but ultimately, at Clove, and she looks so different in the starlight. From where Cato has been, there's some blood on her face, and for a second, when his vision blurs, she looks like the Girl on Fire. But it''s just an apparition. Peeta sighs. "You don't have to stay here because you're pregnant."

"Oh?" Clove gets out, in a shy voice.

"You're not his property." She blushes.

"I know that!" She growls. "What would you have me do, Peeta?" Her eyes beg him. "I'm not exactly up to surviving on my own. The life I have here is comfortable." she insists, trying to reason with herself ore than Peeta. "And Cato loves me. He's good to me, really."

The words float down the hall, and Cato wanders after them, pausing, listening with intent. It's not his place to interrupt.

"And that's why you stay here?" Peeta asks. "For comfort?" Clove growls.

"I stay because-" Quickly, she loses speed. "I stay because I'm safe here. The Capitol can't get to Cato, yet, or the baby." Silence falls for a minute. Peeta ruminates on that, and Cato, still waiting in the hall, wonders about the nature of the sentiment, not calm enough or sober enough to feel the sting just yet. It's a saving grace.

"Back home," Peeta begins. "We don't get the option of comfort." He looks up at Clove. "you live for love or you die alone."

Clove looks him in the eyes. "Which are you?"

Clear as day, Cato hears the boy answer, not with words or smiles, but with a kiss that doesn't belong to him. Worse than that? Clove kisses back.


	8. Act 2, Scene 5

Four weeks.

Four weeks, twenty-eight days, six hundred and seventy-two hours. Whichever way Clove tries to look at it, that same body to time still seems stupidly big. This is how long it has been since she last touched Peeta. Not even a handshake has passed between the two of them to damn near forty-thousand, three-hundred and twenty minutes.

That isn't to say she hasn't been thinking about touching, because if she thinks and doesn't actually touch there isn't any harm done either which way and then when Cato joins her at night he can't seem anything on her skin. As if it's his business who has been touching her skin, anyway. So, Clove remains cold and aloof, but in her mind, Peeta's warm hands are always on hers. Instead, of course, she only sometimes catches his warm eyes on her and they look so shy, and so sweet.

And Peeta? He says not a word of guidance either which way.

Clove thinks it's because Peeta despises her, that he only spared her time because she saved the rest of him (his hand remains in a splint, and it will do for a while). Now that they don't speak, or look, or touch, she feels betrayed. That's only because she's not looking closely enough.

Cato knows. He keeps it to himself, but he knows, and the jealousy makes him sick in the night, the thought of her skin on Peeta's makes him _nauseous nauseous nauseous._ Most of the time, Clove is asleep when Cato joins her, he slips into the cold sheets behind her and wonders why he can no longer smell violets or her tulip perfume. It would seem all of the flowers are dead, and they only grow under the gaze of that Surplus, his useless eyes give them leave to bloom.

So, every time he's sure they will be alone together, he grabs his coat, even though it's warm, and then the Surplus by the back of the collar. Cato feels it's necessary to make up tasks to have Peeta do, just to keep him from Clove. Peeta hasn't seen all that he has seen, that boy has done nothing and she falls so fast into lust for him when Cato bleeds, he dreams the most horrible things, and gets not a glance either way. Not even a lie, a little white lie that would have saved her from this.

"C'mon, Loverboy." He barks to the Surplus, that jumps to attention, heading out to run some useless errand. Of course, he only has to mutter that telltale moniker and then Peeta knows that Cato was listening. The Surplus is plenty smart, they both know it, he keeps his head down because defiance has only caused him injuries.

When Peeta has left, Cato turns to find Clove all alone, reading, doing some mundane task, and he smiles at her, even though his face is ripe with cuts from his recent scuffle, and his eye is still half-shut from the scratches. Clove holds his gaze for no longer than a minute, considering him, before dropping her eyes again.

How have they come so far from the 'star-crossed lovers of District 2'?

Cato is a victor, by nature. He isn't used to coming in second, and it doesn't take long before he goes looking for answers. What he doesn't realize, though, is that Clove does, too.

In the middle of the night, she finds that she can't sleep, so she heads down into the sitting room, where the lights are off, and she can at last be alone. It's too hot to sleep, and in this weather, it can't be long before Cato follows after her, with the worst of dreams. He has the same one, over and over, of coming too late to the feast, at the cornucopia. He dreams that he kneels besides her body, spear in hand, pleading for Clove to stay alive, so that he can get her home and safe. Then he wakes.

Other times, Cato dreams about coming back to life, just to look for clove, and that he'll be a mason and he'll lay the foundations for her house, and their eyes will meet once but not again and it kills him. And after that, he'll come back as a butterfly and land in the palm of her hand but she'll brush him away the the rejection kills him, he dies early and when they bury him they put coins over his eyes but he uses them as train fare just to come back and looks for her.

That's why, when Cato wakes, he holds on a little too tightly.

Not tonight, of course, because it's warm and Clove needs her space to think. It's impossible, quite literally impossible, to try and summarize how to feel about the future and love and the fleeting kiss of the Surplus called Peeta when Cato's lips are against her neck and his arms are around her stomach and she's aware of how there are still some flowers on the smell of Cato's skin, if only she can will them to grow. This isn't fair, she thinks, because she's happy, and she has been given so much. It can all be taken away in a second.

The clock is laughing in her face, signaling the end of the midnight hour, moving it on to the next day. Sometimes Clove hears the clock chiming in her sleep, and other times she sees that light in the pantry, that same angel, and his eyes, fiery with defiance and a youth independent of age. For the moment, she actually wants to be alone, with her cold drink of some kind of juice. She sips and tries to think, but all that's in her head is Cato, and Peeta, and the unhappy accident that binds her here.

Deep in thought, she doesn't notice the angel until he notices her first. This angel leaves the light on, and then steps back, horrified.

"I'm sorry," Peeta says, quickly, fumbling against the wall with his still-broken hand. It's in a complicated split, and the skin there is unnaturally pale from grafting. "I didn't know you were awake." For some reason, that makes sense in the moment, Clove stands up, her trance broken, and the shards of it are raining down on her like diamonds.

"It's okay," She says. It's only then she remembers to sit down, and she does trying to look casual and graceful, but the truth is, she can feel every second of Peeta looking at her, his eyes the first contact she's shared with him in so long. It's not that there's anything wrong with Cato, his arms are the best to wake from dreams in, but Peeta is gentler. Always steady, and eh offers flowers, somehow. "I thought you'd be asleep."

Peeta shrugs. "Dreams." It strikes Clove as odd: she often forgets to think of Peeta as human, with his won fears and desires. She straightens and takes another sip, her eyes inviting the boy to sit. He stays in the arch of the wall, as if her presence makes him nervous.

"Of what?" She asks. It makes him embarrassed. He even blushes, heaven forbid, and it makes her remember that he still is only a boy. At least Clove can have a few years to her name, a few experiences that make her a bit older. Peeta is straight from his mother's breast, it seems.

"It changes," He hesitates, trying to remain ambiguous. He can tell by the look on Clove's face that she isn't going to allow it so easily. "I dream about getting reaped, sometimes." It would be insensitive to laugh, so Clove smiles at him.

"Oh," She whispers. "It's not all that bad." And instead of remaining so glum, Peeta shakes his head and laughs a bit, like it's funny. Clove doesn't see the jokes, but she sees Peeta's smile and then she thinks of those flowers in the scent of Cato's skin and the crossroads are like quicksand, consuming her. "What, you never wanted to see any of the world outside of your District?"

Peeta smiles again. "Alive, certainly." That strikes Clove as odd. She doesn't know how to be around people that aren't casual with the idea of the Games, that aren't 'Careers'. Because, truth be told, that's all she has been surrounded by her whole life and being afraid was always something people laughed at you for. Nobody is laughing here.

"What makes you think you'd die?" She asks in a slow voice, taking another sip from her drink. His face becomes fixed with concentration, lines appearing on his forehead, beneath the yellow hair, like wheat. Cato's hair is wheaty, too, and he's beautiful and pale, like him. But Cato is bigger, and stronger, and he only speaks because he can.

"For starters, I wouldn't have you to pull Cato off of me." That makes Clove laugh. But then she realizes that Cato's name is there used to represent any murderer, or victor of the games and she starts to feel a little less comfortable. She tries to remember the arena, and then Peeta, but the two don't sit happy together, and she can't divorce the idea of the Games from Cato, holding her on the Cornucopia, looking so unlike himself.

"That, and I couldn't exactly bake anybody out of the arena." Clove shakes away the nerves, and tries on another smile. It comes easily, and she wonders if she really means it.

"It's not like you think it is." She sighs.

"Things rarely are," Peeta hedges, and his face looks so kind, he looks so inviting that anybody could just lean in and-

Clove looks up at Peeta and she recognizes the expression on his face, that same look she has seen before, and anything the two of them feel, resentment or hate or friendship, is just as dangerous,. The Capitol and the people must believe Clove and Cato are still madly in love, and Cato has to be sure that Clove has eyes for nobody at all if they are not for him.

"Surplus," She starts off, coarsely. When she calls him like that, they both know she's trying to remind him of his Place and her own authority. "I fear I'm giving you the wrong impression of what-" She fumbles for words. Peeta is looking at her some more. Oh, crucified Christ, how can anyone hope to think when he's looking at her like that, face fixed in partial concern, hair swept over his face, one eye closed from injury? "This isn't what I'm supposed to-"

Peeta takes a sharp breath in. "I wouldn't know what a married woman does or doesn't do, Miss." For some reason, it hurts, some of the flowers are trampled, because Clove doesn't want to be 'miss', but she also isn't sure if she wants to be something else to Cato, her Cato, who has nightmares and will wake along, terrified for the very first time in his life.

"I can't sleep." Clove says. She wants to explain that this isn't her attempt at talking to Peeta, or craving his attention, because she doesn't. He is, however, a sparkling conversationalist, and she would listen to him reading a phonebook, just to hear him speak. But that's not why she's awake and downstairs, she swears!

Slowly, with this unspoken majesty, Peeta takes the seat across from her. He looks frailer, and skinnier and smaller than Clove remembers. She draws up her knees up to her chest and sprawls out in the chair a bit. There's no way to get comfortable in this house. The place feels emptier and emptier and Cato's arms get tighter and tighter and it's just everything here. The too-rich Capitol food and the too-large cushions and the ornamented plates and the people, too heavy, and everybody who ever watched the Games here, with their many beautiful possessions (that they like to number with Cato and Clove).

"You want some tea?" Peeta asks. "Whenever I couldn't sleep, my Dad used to make me some, and tell me a story." His eyes are glassy with the memory, and for a second, it's obvious he isn't here, in District 2, but back home, at the bakery, in the dead of night where he's just a kid, hearing about things too baffling to be real. Clove reminds herself that she isn't the one who sold him into being a Surplus, she merely bought him. But it doesn't make her feel a whole lot better.

"That'd be nice." She says, simply. Peeta snaps out of his reverie and smiles. It's that look on his face that convinces Clove that, no, she doesn't want to kiss him again, but she does want to keep listening.

Peeta rises, and heads towards the kitchen. A few minutes later, he comes back with some form of tea, Clove isn't very sure, to be honest. Each District has it's own varieties, and now that Peeta does most of the shopping, in the markets and all, there's no being sure. He sets them down on the coffee table, and looks up, smiling. As soon as he focuses, something knocks the smile right off of his face.  
"Your hair-" he says, in a tiny voice. "You're wearing it in a plait." Clove nods, carefully. Peeta backs into his chair, doing everything he can to try to forget that he's noticed, keeping his mouth shut so he doesn't mumble _her _name and have the nightmare return to him.

"Thank you." Clove says, sharply. "For the tea," But what she really means is something else entirely, and she figures the time to start being grateful is now. "And for saving me –the other night, I mean." Peeta shrugs.

"All part of the job." his modesty is irritating.

"I might have died." Clove counters, scowling. Not even her scowl can repress Peeta, who smiles at her again, totally removed from the memory, and from that feeling he gets when he sees the dark hair pulled down her back.

"Dying is as good an excuse as any to start living." Peeta says suddenly. It's torn out of him, and when he sees Clove's perplexity, he just smiles, like it's normal, and says "Wouldn't you say?" She can only nod.

It goes silent for a long time, and then she looks up at him. "What stories were you told?"

And Peeta smiles again. He reaches into his lap and hold his hand, pretending that's he's holding her. That very same moment, Clove reaches behind her back, and does the same.

It takes another week before Clove notices it. The way Peeta has become like the furniture of the house. Every night, she goes down at midnight, feigning sleeplessness, just for the tea, and the stories, and for him. Peeta's eyes are on fire, his soul bleeds through every damn syllable when he speaks, and it makes Clove feel like she wants to stay here.

Afterward, she goes back upstairs, to Cato, and he doesn't wake until she lips under one of his heavy arms. She still doesn't ever touch Peeta, and it makes her look forward to speaking with the boy instead, and then going back to Cato, who has always been surprisingly affectionate, always up for just laying there, with Clove next to him.

"Move up," She mumbles, as she slips in besides him, warm from the tea and sleepy from the story and still holding her own hand and thinking about her own lucky. Her movement is enough to pull Cato out of his half-sleep and he sits up for a second, freeing up room for her, before winding his hands round her waist and onto her stomach, pressing his nose under her ear and breathing in the smell of violets that seems present again, if faint.

"Can't sleep?" He asks, in a soft voice, and he's been so gently as of recent, Clove has to wonder if it's because of his guilt over strangling her, or for actually feeling something.

It is, of course, because Cato knows, and he does love Clove. He's not about to lose her to some _Surplus_.

Clove shakes her head. "Can't get tired."

For all that they think him brutal and bloodthirsty, he can never quite say no to Clove. That's why he bought her the lion carving on the train up, and why he never argued, not once, when she was picking their Surplus. It's one of his only weaknesses –all she has to do is look at him with those sweet, dark eyes and ask, and Cato will do anything in his power to make her happy. They are both from quite affluent families, and Cato was very aware when they married that they were both spoiled, and shallow. But, looking at her, he knew it was exactly what he needed.

So when Cato turns to her and says "What do you need?", he means it. Clove sighs, and adjusts herself. There's no honest way to compare Peeta, with his words and his eyes, to Cato. Here, his arms are tucked around her stomach and it reminds her that even if she did love Peeta, which she is almost certain she does (totally, mostly, sort of) not, it won't even matter in months to come, because they're all going to have something on their hands they can do nothing about.

"Tell me a story." Clove asks, simply. It sounds silly to anybody other than Peeta.

"Well, _darling_-" She interrupts.

"And we're out of tea, so you're gonna need to get us some." Cato frowns, closing his eyes for a second, wanting his dreamless sleep back but wanting Clove more, so lovely, and thin and perfect. He dreams of her most, of losing her and loving her, and he wakes up squeezing the life out of her because even if Clove doesn't love him he will never let go.

"_Sweetheart_, you don't drink tea," He laughs, Clove elbows him in the solar plexus, all of the air rushing from his lungs.

"I do, actually," She says, smiling at her handiwork. "So you'll have to remember it, you _ass._" Cato starts to laugh, too, raspy and breathless, but he recovers quickly and sighs. Clove can feel his cool breath and the hair on her neck tingle, reacting. She could stay like this forever, pretending that Peeta isn't downstairs somewhere, having his own nightmares. "Anyway."

"Anyway."

Clove nudges him, gentler, and thinks about kissing him. "A story?" Cato laughs, and is about to shake his head when Clove says something, innocent enough, that makes his face go harder than if he's been punched in the gut. "I can always have Peeta tell me one." Quickly, Cato recovers.

"He's from an outline District, _dearest._ They tell stories about goats." Clove laughs, and then holds up a hand.

"Only the ones that have slain dragons."

"Fine." Cato says, yawning. He leans his head back against the pillow and tries to think. He was never much for stories at school, and his parents only told him about Games strategies, so the only things Cato can think to tell are his own dreams, and it seems too personal, like somebody has slipped their hand between his ribs and grabbed onto whatever they can find. "Anything to stop you blabbering on about goats, sunshine."

"I'll be good," Clove says, impudently. Cato kisses her on the shoulder.

"Sit pretty and do your job."

She smirks. "I could kill you right now." Which only serves to make Cato grin.

"Oh?" He laughs. "Right now?" Clove nods.

"The tragedy is that I haven't, _honey_." It's so natural to fall back into this routine. It feels good, too, and Cato has missed all of her cheap shots and jabs. All of them lower her guard a little, they make her open to being kinder, when really she's so harsh. He yawns again, breathing in her tulip perfume and rubbing small circles on her tummy, having kept absolutely silent about his excitement.

It was never a question he had ever asked Clove, nor she him. After the Games, they spent a lot of time in each others beds and between eachother's thighs, and that was that. Neither of them had even dreamed of Clove getting pregnant: that had just happened, so suddenly. They both know that Clove isn't at all nurturing by nature, and to a large extent, neither is Cato. But he's still pleased, secretly. He still smiles about it when Clove isn't there to smack him.

She looks at him expectantly. And he begins.

"Okay," He yawns. Clove looks skeptical. "Well, in mythology, people were supposed to have four arms and four legs and two heads and all the rest of it-"

She snorts. "Not a comedy, then?" Cato makes a face.

"You want to hear this or not?" She laughs.

"Go on, then." Because, secretly, this is her only means of comparison. Son far, though, Peeta has the lead.

"So, anyway. Four arms and legs and that," Cato sighs, stretching, tired. "The gods were scared we'd be too powerful, to they split us in half. Two arms and legs and stuff. Like we are now." Clove nods, not particularly drawn in. "And the whole point of our lives is to search for our other half, because when we do we're supposed to be complete. But it doesn't always work out."

Clove sighs. "Scoring high marks for originality, _love_." Cato clicks his tongue.

"I haven't started yet." He grumbles.

She looks at him, and Cato feels, for the first time, he may not be good enough.

"We lived in Egypt." He murmurs. "You were the Pharaoh's daughter, and I was his slave, and loving you lead to me dead." It comes straight out of his dream, and his voice is rushed and overcome with all of the things he has felt. It can't stop, like bleeding, and Clove is frozen, unsure of what the words mean, or if there are flowers growing in this battlefield. "They claimed that I seduced you." he tells her. "And after they stole my life I was resurrected as a mason."

His arms grow tighter around her. Clove feels herself go hollow inside, just liked she did with Peeta, and in the games, when he had come for her, and saved her.

"I laid the foundation for your house. We met eyes-" he sucks in a breath. "-for two seconds but then you left and I never saw you again and I died." Clove shuts her eyes, and tries never to think of him, her Cato, bulletproof and invincible, ever dying or even weak.

"I came back," He whispers. "I came back as a caterpillar. I turned into a butterfly and I landed in the palm of your hand, you brushed me away and the rejection-" There's nothing left in Cato's lungs and he takes another lungful of air before slicing open his chest and spilling more blood into the ink where his love writes. "-_killed me_."

"But I woke." Cato says, quickly. "I came back just to look for you. I left notes in stupid places hoping you would find them –I carved our names in trees and prayed that it would jog your memory –I used to go searching for you, hoping that you were looking for me but you..." He closes his eyes. "You weren't and I _died –I died early.._."

If Clove could breathe, she might cry.

"I died young with breadcrumbs in my hands, just hoping you would find me so they buried me and when they did-" he laughs, breathlessly. "-when they buried me they put these coins over my eyes and I woke up and used them as fare just to come back-"

He closes his eyes again, ashamed. "Just to come back and _look for you_."

"Cato." Clove gets out, unsure if she'll cry or not, and she tries her hardest not to, she won't give him that power.

He looks at her, opening his eyes. Maybe it's a lie, or maybe it's the truth but before she can help it the words come up and out like breathing.

"I love you, Cato." She says. The room swells with violets and for the first time in ages, she hears his voice crack with a rare vulnerability.

"I love you, too."


	9. Act 3, Scene 1

It all happens very quickly.

Weeks pass, again, and it starts to get warmer and warmer and all of a sudden, it's the start of the summer. Nights are brief and afternoons are long and lazy, Clove sits in the garden and puzzles over the time of year. Capitol folk flit throughout the city, and Careers all over the District brace themselves in both anticipation and horror.

Summer, she remembers. Let the Games begin.

Has it already been a year since Cato volunteered, from the audience of the select few, bigger and stronger and less alive than all of them? It seems a lifetime ago, when Clove was young, when she wasn't bound to anybody but the District, told again and again that she was going to make them proud, that she should learn everything about her opponent, rival, Cato, but keep him at arm's length. On the train up to the Capitol, they fucked, rough and unceremonious and desperate, and Cato had been different.

"I'll do it quick, if I have to." He'd said. And Clove adjusted against his body and gritted her teeth and gasped, trying to quiet herself. She felt herself nod, and her toes were already curling.

"Through the heart." She had said, because she didn't want to die.

That's the irony of life, of course. Both of them died, in a way. They crawled out of that grave as other people, less alive, but broken in the softest places. Clove thinks that she only knows what it is to be alive now because she had skirted death with him. Sometimes, when they meet eyes, she can still see it, that eagerness, that promise. Cato would still, if she asked him, do her quick through the heart so that she could look at him until she died.

Her heart has always been the first thing to go. Even now, it is poisonous to her, it makes her unsure, and she can't afford to be unsure when there are the games coming up. Some ambitious little machine needs a shove in the right direction, even if Clove isn't exactly the one to give it. She knows that this is just another excuse for Cato to mess with her, using lives as Proxy. He's always been like that: if he can't have personal glory he wants everybody else to suffer.

It's not just that it's Hunger Games season that bothers her. (I mean, it happens every year, and if Clove invested herself in every tribute, every year, she'd be crazier than a shithouse rat.) What really gets her isn't the Games themselves, but everything around that. The idea of having to mentor somebody isn't exactly pleasant. Having to sit for Caesar Flickerman another time makes her feel a bit lightheaded. It's just the Capitol. Those too-invested, too-interested strange creatures that babble at her, demanding a convincing love story from the two of them, demanding to know every single detail about their lives together.

She doesn't want them knowing about Peeta at all; because they'll want him glamourized, made into something he's not. Clove is certain she doesn't want them to know about Cato's scuffle with the Surplus, but most of all her pregnancy. It's getting harder and harder to hide, but the moment even one of them knows, it will be media fodder, everywhere. Even after all of this time, the images of the Capitol-defying 'Star-crossed lovers' still throb through the newsprint curtain in most Districts. There's no escaping it.

All of a sudden, it's two months before the reaping day, and everybody in the District is holding their breath.

Here, it's different. Teenagers in black, built unnaturally, start to swell in numbers, suddenly sprawled all over the town and the parks. In decorated parks they spar, sometimes, with fists and knives and all of the rest. It makes Peeta nervous, and out of place. Back home, the countdown isn't something to celebrate, and it isn't a time for confidence. People start to haggle for less; they let eachother off, because in two months somebody is going to lose a child, along with someone else, and there's nothing to be done. Why train? Even the fittest ones, even the Girl on Fire couldn't have been helped. Even with her sponsors, even with Peeta's heart, love still cannot ever hope to preserve or save-

And now, death keeps the girl in the dark to be his paramour. It's only now Peeta remembers last year, that he thinks on it for more than just a fleeting second, and he thinks that soon, another few are going to be next, even the smart ones, even the ones who deserve to live.

So, things get quieter in the house. Cato spends all his time in a strenuous effort to remove the weaker ones from a select pack of volunteers, each bit as brutish and patriotic as the victors of the previous Games. This year, of course, it's all about pride, because the last Quarter Quell was won by Peeta's District, and that fact lives in shame to most of the Career districts. There are murmurs of dissent amongst the academy trainers, of course, wondering what the circumstances are going to be. Last time, there were twice as many tributes. Who will they send to their death, that isn't the District's children?

Peeta will be returning for the two days. Reaping falls on the second day: and being a Surplus means that he doesn't escape being a slip of paper in that ball. Naturally, the odds are in his favour. He's only got to be in there three times, or something equally stupid, and they might change the rules, seeing as it is the third Quarter Quell. Everybody is hoping for something, especially back home, that will save their children from being sped down the line to death. But love cannot save.

Still, there's plenty of time, and nobody needs care right now.

Clove just dreads the idea of mentoring anybody. She always figured that after marrying Cato, the games might finally be over for them, and they could avoid the Capitol and live in peace. She thinks of her stylists, and how they'll eat up the news of the baby with a silver spoon and want to show it off to the world. No, Clove is firm. It's too personal, and it's too important. No, not with all of those people.

Every night, she treads down the stairs at midnight, leaving Cato, who sleeps heavy, worn out from his day, and finds Peeta waiting for her. They still never touch. Ever. As if it's some sort of betrayal. Other than that, the talking is open, and maybe it's a strange way of saying, but Clove could listen to him for hours. Peeta isn't much to look at, overall, but the way he speaks, he could move a crowd to revolution with but a word. There's this unspoken mastery to him; his opinions are law,, and people always feel the burning desire to impress him or be near him.

Another reason to hate the games: Clove isn't going to like sharing Peeta at all. He belongs to her, and the idea of all these personal stories, these meaningful airs of nothing cannot be given to anybody else.

"I can't complain, I know." She tells Peeta, at another one of their midnight sessions. It's like therapy, and even when Peeta doesn't speak, he sits and she can soak in the warmth he radiates, his listening is worth more, minute for gram, than any gold or diamond. "But this house is too empty to have him away all the time." The boy nods, and sips his drink, thoughtfully.

"He doesn't make sense here." Peeta says, after a very long time. Whenever they speak about Cato, he's always so fastidious; each word is selected with the finickiest finger, as if he cares deeply about how he describes the man. It's not as if Cato would care, the press aren't exactly his biggest fan and words seem to have lost all meaning to him.

"How do you mean?" Clove asks. She doesn't stay up so late, as of recent. She feels tired all of the time and the tea probably isn't helping. Peeta cocks his head to the left, this quirky little habit of his, when he's trying to assess a situation, and how to speak. He is so aware that a word out of line means that he's no longer Peeta, her confidant, but Surplus, useless, helpless.

"He doesn't make sense anywhere but the arena," The boy explains, swallowing. "That's what his whole life has been for, and now it's over, he has to make sense of everything else." That catches her ear rather sharply, and she snaps her eyes onto his, hit with sudden nerves.

"You don't think he'll volunteer, do you?" She says, panicked. It's happened before, only a few times, but in Career Districts, sometimes younger victors can have another shot, and do, because, not unlike Cato, it's where they feel they belong. It's likely that they won't come out again if they do, though. Everybody knows their strategy, and even their allies turn on them. As it it's not enough to win once. Peeta tries to defuse the tension, with another intricate set of words. "Peeta?

"Difficult to say," He tries to remain ambiguous, because he wants to be honest, but he also want to avoid getting Clove worked up. She lets her back rest again the chair and puts a hand on her stomach, as if by instinct. Truth is, of course, she can't really save all of them. (He can't help but wonder who she'd ick, if it came down to it, but he pushes that thought away quickly. That isn't fair.) "Don't worry, Clove, it's the Quell. He's smarter than that."

She smiles to him. "Jesus, I hope so. I won't have that son-of-a-bitch volunteer like last time," Peeta frowns at her.

"Is that why you went? Because he volunteered?" She nods, thinking her reasoning is good and sound. At the time, of course, she was seventeen and in love, desperately and would have followed him anywhere. They had even promised 'do it quick, straight through the heart', and it was their passion, more than luck, that saved them.

It doesn't seem that Peeta agrees.

"I always figured it was just the fickle finger of fate, y'know." He laughs, but then shakes his head. "Nobody at home would ever volunteer," Clove strokes the rim of her cup.

"You never would?"

Peeta shakes his head. "Of course I wouldn't. Nobody would." Clove takes a sip and sighs.

"Katniss did." It's the magic word. Abracadabra! Peeta's jaw snaps shut and his teeth grin like he's a muttation of his usual self. Clove sees him go from relaxed to taught as a bowstring in a minute, and the flowers are being picked and trampled. The boy won't look anywhere but the floor, and he bites his lip so hard that he's going to choke on his own wisdom.

Clove wonders if she should speak, but knows by his silence that it's unwise. It's terrifying: Peeta is usual so quick to forgive and be kind and move on, but right now he's paralysed by a feeling Clove doesn't dare say she knows. What did Girl on Fire mean to him anyway? She feels herself grow jealous of the dead. Were they lovers? Friends? Did Peeta touch Katniss where he'll not even brush skins with Clove?

Finally, she brings the conversation back. "At least you're smart enough to keep out of it."

"Yeah," Peeta echoes her quietly, in a reverie of his own that has left him unnaturally pale. "Smart enough." Clove puts her cup, empty, on the table, and brushes down her lap to indicate that she's going to go up in a minute. Back to Cato, and it seems scaring now that the Reaping is in the distance.

"I just keep wishing there was a way to bring the arena to him." She sighs. "Without him having to leave me here." She covers her eyes with her hand, and groans. When she uncovers them, Peeta is smiling again like has a secret and his pleasure is so tangible, she's practically breathing it in. "What?" Clove says, irritably. She hates not being in on it.

"Just a thought." Peeta says, and already, Clove feels herself infected with his fidgety, can't-seem-to-keep-still cheerfulness over that thought. On the table are two small, marble elephants from the market, and she lifts one, staring at Peeta. He lifts the other, and they touch trunks.

Peeta looks at her, shyly. Clove looks back.

She counts it as their second kiss.

As the countdown continues, everybody starts to get nervous.

Cato finds himself sleepless at night, watching as Clove slips away, without fail, every time the clock reaches midnight. He daren't hold on to her, it's not his place. Instead, he lies in the sheets, feeling each night grow warmer, worrying about the Quell. Even if, heaven forbid, worst came to worst and one (if not both) of them were selected to go back in, Clove would be excused, surely? The Capitol wouldn't send the 'star-crossed lover' to her death, married and pregnant, no, they have grown too used to her.

At the very least, they'll have to mentor this year. Cato can handle that, he spends most of his time at the academy anyway, searching for some worthy opponent. He's not the best, and he's been beaten before, but being a victor means that no student is too quick to say a word against him either way.

It's a strange way of saying he sort of misses the games. It's like Christmas: because all of his life, every single moment of training and studying and fighting, it was all for the games. It didn't last twenty days, and it's been over for nearly a year. What is Cato supposed to do with his life if he can't fight? He fears he's obsolete, with no use to anybody. At least in the arena he had direction and purpose, and at least at the academy, they take him seriously. What happens when he loses his strength, or his speed?

Cato has seen how they deal with race-horses, when their legs get injured. He swears, if he ever becomes crippled or useless, he wishes somebody would shoot him, too.

It's his last thought before he succumbs to sleep, and it doesn't take long before he wishes he didn't.

_T__he sound that starts the dream if of something hitting metal. A body. The noise doesn't ring, drowned out by her breathing, __gasping__, panting, and Cato knows almost immediately __that__ it is Clove. He looks around__ the thicket, too panicked to be__ careful, too scared to scout efficiently. He readies Marvel's spear__, taken in death's stead, and tries to find his footing. All too soon, Thresh's voice, just as breathless, begins. __  
__  
Cato knows there's nought he can do but try to save her. __  
__  
"What's you do to that little girl? You kill her?" The boy, bigger than Cato, of District 11, sounds furious. Girl on Fire has fallen silent, and he can only hope she's dead. One less body to deal with to help Clove. __  
__  
Still spluttering for air, and terrified, Clove speaks. "No-" Her voice is so weak. "No, it wasn't me!" Thresh isn't buying it. He keeps her against the Cornucopia, and her feet are battering wildly, just as they did when Cato strangled her, desperate to live, but too shocked and panicked and helpless to call out to him. __  
__  
Cato is running now, he doesn't care who finds him, he's sprinting, spear-in-hand towards the Cornucopia, ready for a fight, ready to save her because what he fears more than death is losing her, having her slip through his fingers like liquid sunshine.__  
__  
__"You said her name. I heard you. You kill her?" Something Cato's stomach drops and he thinks he's going to be sick. This was Marvel's doing. Clove needs him. For the first time ever, she needs hi,, and Cato is terrified he won't make it, he'll prove himself useless against Thresh. "You cut her up like you were going to cut up this girl here?" __  
__  
Their voices are a lot closer now. Cato can feel his heart beating in his mouth, unable to close it in shock and breathlessness and fear. He isn't used to being afraid. And he doesn't like it. __  
__  
"__N__o! No, I-"__ his hand fixed tighter around her throat, and Clove, beautiful Clove that Cato was always teasing for a kiss and falling madder and madder in love with, little Clove that beat him at their 100m and never let him forget it, to this day, is having the life squeezed out of her. __  
__  
"Cato!" She screams for him. "Cato!" __  
__  
This is the first time she has called to him. She no longer cares about seeming weak to the Capitol, or if they'll believe her and Cato truly love. None of that matters. She is being crushed and she's scared, like a helpless child. __  
__  
"Clove!" he calls back, to comfort her. There's no way he can summit the distance. There's no way he can save her. __  
__  
It's too late. Thresh beats her again and again against the Cornucopia, and then drops her body, lifeless and brittle and pathetic to the grassy floor. Her chest heaves in this effort to stay alive, but it's no good. This is how Cato finds her, kneeling, spear-in-hand, screaming. __  
__  
He looks away, unable to bear the sight of her. "Please…" finally, Cato tears his eyes back to her, and he finds her hand,, already growing a bit colder. "N, we're going to be fine, it's nothing, it';s fine, you're going to be fine, Clove, you're-"__  
__  
Her breathing becomes more slight, and Cato starts to panic. __  
__  
"Don't you dare leave me here! Don't you dare!" Her eyes cannot focus. She can just about reach blindly for his face, but instead brushes his neck. Her arm falls away, the life leaving her. Cato grabs her y the arms, lifting her body up, shaking her. "I swear to God if you leave me here I'm going to-…." His words die on his lips. What will he do? What more can he possibly do to her? __  
__  
Clove rasps again, and Cato watches her take one final breath. __  
__  
All of her is gone. In his arms, propped up to face him, is nothing more than a corpse, a body, a shell. Her eyes are still open, and her face is still pink. He stares at her for so long, keeps thinking that she'll say something, because her lips are slightly parted and it looks as if she's about to speak. __  
__  
"I always thought your eyes closed when you died, Clove." She cannot respond, of course, but he wants her to, and Cato feels himself break, tear apart like a cracked vessel which sinks to the bottom of the ocean. He brings her body into his, resting his face in the crook of her neck. "Say something, __Clove." He sobs. "Please, just say something." __  
__  
Suddenly angry, he throws her body back down onto the grass. __  
__  
"You answer me, Clove!" He __screams__ his face red with tears and shame, but mostly disbelief. "__You answer me now!" __  
__  
_When he wakes, the bed besides him is still empty, and he is cold with sweat.

"Clove?" He calls out, still unsure how much of his dream had been a lie. His hands are shaking, and there are actual tears streaming down his face. He can still feel the lifeless skin against his hands and he wants to scrub his body raw of the memory, but cannot.

Worst of all, there is no answer.

He tears off the sheets and heads out into the hall, empty, and there are no flowers here, none at all. His voice sounds too uncertain to belong to him. "Clove?"

But the lady seems to hold her tongue.

Cato breaks out into a jog. He throws open every door, every single door on the first floor, shouting for her. She's not anywhere to be found, and Cato is terrified. Each time a room is empty he sees her body again, in the grass by the cornucopia, eyes open, still not moving, as if she's about to speak. It makes him want to vomit, but he cannot even breathe.

"Clove!" Downstairs is empty too. There is no angel, or pantry light, and he hears the words before he can stop himself. "You answer me, Clove!"

"Cato!" A voice in the distance calls out.

With a superhuman speed, he runs, sprints, doesn't breathe until he's emerged from the cool of the house into a blistering day.

The garden is thick with trees, and he recognises the gold, seven-feet-high structure before his body even stops. Clove stands by what must be a cornucopia, where once there were just acres of grass.

"Cato?" She takes a step forward, trepidatious. "Jesus, you look awful-" But, mid-step, she freezes and folds in half.

He wants so desperately to move, but he cannot. Sixty seconds have yet to pass.

This is where he stood in the arena.


	10. Act 3, Scene 2

What Cato does, and what he thinks he's doing often contradict eachother. Especially with Clove. Often with Clove. Always with Clove.

He's sure he can't move. The day before him, blindingly hot, and the sight of what cannot be anything but the arena, sway in and out of his primary focus. Clove's image becomes confused and distorted in his memory, fuzzy from everything else that he sees or might hope ever to lay yes on. Just like the arena, he can see scarce flowers, but trees and grassland and an ugly, metal twisted horn. For whatever reason, maybe the smell of the place, or his own nightmares or perhaps even that Cato has dreamt that same dream four times in a row, four nights in a row, but he remains tense and motionless. Squinting in the sunshine.

Something breaks. A string is cut, this vital one that wrestles control of his body away from rational thought. It's like watching somebody else, a dull rumor of another victor, when Cato finally finds leave to step forward. It all happens like the ballad of some politician, starting so simply, and naturally. He keeps on, towards what has to be a cornucopia, and Clove steps forward, she smiles.

The sun has brought out some of the flecks of brown in her eyes, turning them into gold. It re-dots all of her freckles, and while Cato thinks they are kisses from an angel, he cannot think, he cannot speak. In such a way, he thinks of them as where the angels have spat on her. Why would they kiss her, why would they mourn for a girl that kills?

Everything becomes slow, and underwater.

Clove senses the look on his face a moment too late. Suddenly, the grass in front of Cato's eyes seems to shine, and shimmer explode. The day is as silent as the ocean floor and just as oxygenated. He gaps for air, trying to fight these nightmares, this sensation. His stomach feels squeezed, and all of his organs boiled and slippery and sweaty in his body. A collar of sweat makes beads down his back. As his vision spins, and the trees wind in and out of one another like a hushed conversation between two angels, the words come to him, overheard from the trees.

Episode. An Episode. Having an episode. It doesn't register to Cato that the trees are talking about him, and then from their dancing, haunting vision, a shock of lamplit lemon hair appears. Like the sounds of the fairground, whooshes of voices pass and Cato tries to grab onto them and stuff them into his ears and make sense of them, but he cannot. Clove is the loudest,, in his left, and he turns, the mouth of that cornucopia swallowing her whole, keeping here there in that maw of death. She seems resilient, and grabs for him, taking Cato's face in her hands and speaking.

"Cato?" She sounds distorted, lowers and higher and less real. His ears were blown to bits by the rifle hits and explosions anyway, but her words make no sense. There are others, ones that he doesn't reach in time. "...-it's not February anymore, we have to get older...wake up..." But then, it sounds as if she's singing, nonsense syllables from being out of melodies.

Clove's face becomes different, sharper, starved, and when she opens her mouth Cato is afraid she'll bite him, that's she'll tear out his throat. Her hands feel cold. They shake him, still holding, and Cato shakes her off, with such a force that his eyes cannot follow her. He needs to get older, and escape from here, from her, and the angels in the trees.

This place is not solitary enough. Cato doesn't feel safe here, he feels stung, so certain that the ringing in his ears is the hum of a tracker jacker and he spins wildly to find them, only to see a softer, wheatier yellow, and more hands, gentler ones.

"Get me out." Cato's voice is unrecognizable and fast. There is no breath or soul to it, only fear. "get me out!" His voice breaks and hes pins again, pulling the pale blonde along with him.

"You're fine." The boy says, and Cato focuses enough to see blue, this pure, oceanic cobalt that's so free and ambitious that he's already both drowning and flying just on looking at I. The colour of his hair and the texture is like toast, and just as floury. His words are lies, however doused in honey they might be. Cato strikes him, as hard as he can muster, across the face, and another appears at his side. His girl, his lady, and she looks afraid.

"I didn't know," She whispers, her voice elasticated by his own hallucinations. Cato knows he cannot breathe. The cornucopia that looms looks hungry, and how close he was to falling victim to it. Inn a second, the thing appears to set on fire, no doubt from the bodies inside, of one girl in particular, that sang like a mockingjay and died on Fire. Cato tries to pull back from her, terrified, but Clove keeps on. "You're safe, Cato, nobody is going to hurt you-"

Cato grabs her arms and shakes her. "You get me out!" he wails. Clove starts to whimper, gripped with fear.

"B-but you're home!" She cries out. Of course, the words confused him further and Cato shakes her again, harder.

"Liar!" Clove kicks him hard enough that Cato drops her, staggering backwards, watching as she scuttles on all fours in the grass to get away, knowing that it might well be too late.  
Cato raises an enormous hand. "You did this!"

Clove looks around. "No! No, I didn't-" It's then she looses it.

"Peeta!" She screeches. "Peeta!" And the blonde boy who smells of flowers and bread the only clear thing in this sea of chaos, comes for him.

"I'm so sorry," Is all that the boy has to say. First comes the stiffness, and then comes this silence.

* * *

When Cato comes to, he can hear the sound of a piano winding from down the hall.

It's dark in the bedroom. He can tell by the smell of the sheets (Clove's tulip perfume, honey, and the very slight scent of death) where he is before his eyes open, and then adjust to the cozy darkness. Pinpricks of white-hot lights seep in through the blackout curtains, but the day is as strident as ever on the other side. The piano calls from down the stairs, in the parlour, and nobody has played it in so long, nobody has played it like this _ever_, possibly.

There's some blood on the back of Cato's hand. He feels woozy, but the headache will pass. In fact, the music eases the pain, it eases his rage at being here, all alone, and from the notes played, his nightmares don't feel so haunting. That isn't Clove's work, she never plays anymore, and even if she did, it wouldn't be as complicated as this. The melody glides up and down, flitting around like a butterfly, and then soars up, like a bird pasted on wallpaper, but not an unkind comment. The accompanying hand follows after it like a wild dog chasing that same butterfly.

Instead of lingering on all that Cato is so sure is a dream (Clove, that cornucopia, and that arena) he peels back the sheets and sits up, taking a few deep breaths in. By the bed, somebody has left a tall, half-finished glass of water, and some stationery. Cato recognizes his handwriting but has no recollection of writing it. The piece is yellowed with sweat and torn. It reads:

_Are you, Are you  
Coming to the tree  
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three?  
Strange things did happen here  
No stranger would it be-_

Cato can't read the rest. Part of him just about recognizes some of it, but he cannot place if the words are a story or a song. Unlike most of the other Districts, nobody had ever sung to Cato. He tries to think of Clove, whom he has never heard sing, but the idea doesn't fit in his mind. He cannot divorce her from the knives and the Games, and that one desperate fuck on the train up, toes curling, eyes on her, swearing 'I'll do it quick if I have to'.

His headache has been soothes, but something in him still aches, and he draws himself to stand, at last, ignoring the water and heading downstairs. All the while the piece keeps going, and more words enter his head, more memories. Cato stops when he reaches the top of the stairs, winded by hearing Clove screaming in his head, hearing her voice break as she cried for help: 'Peeta! Peeta!'.

He's at the bottom of the stairs when something else hits him. A soft, quivering voice, singing to Cato, only to Cato, each word as a gift but something darker, too.

_Are you, Are you  
Coming to the tree  
Where the dead man called out for his love to flee?_

A song, he thinks, all too late. The words deeply unsettle him, and for some reason all he can think of is Clove, his only joy in this world of horrors, but not in a romantic light at all. There is nothing romantic about this hanging tree for her, because, even though Cato is not the once singing, and Clove is not the one being sung to. They both know.

She will never come to the Hanging Tree.

Cato wanders in to the parlor, careful not to chase the melodic butterfly away, or to scare the creeping, accompanying hand into stillness. The music takes no notice, having the audacity to remain so tragic, and so light and out of grasp, soaring higher and further than anybody in this grey place dares to dream. Breathless, Cato remains in the door, watching the pianist lean in to every note, so sincere, so honest to all of the listeners. It's almost too personal, each of Cato's nightmares threading one note to the next.

It feels as if the pianist is tearing pages out of Cato's soul and reading them out loud, for everybody to make fun of.

Suddenly angry, he demands an answer from the pianist, too absorbed to notice anything else. When he can stand it no longer, Cato steps into the room, loud enough to be heard. And the melody dies suddenly.

Peeta turns, looked terrified, and pulls his hands away from the keys. He speaks, so quietly, and guiltily that Cato himself feels afraid. The boy has plaster stuck under his nose, and blood drying around it. There are no scrapes from their previous encounter.

"I'm so sorry," He says, "I didn't mean to wake you."

They rarely speak, the Surplus and Cato. It's a combination of everything: the boy is from an outline District, he's property and never seems to have anything to say. At least, Cato tried to believe that, even when he knows it not to be true. Peeta is always talking to Clove. They have kissed, which makes him feel angry and confused all at once, but they never touch. Ever. At all. Cato thinks of what he would say, if Peeta were somebody he had to talk to.

"I didn't know you played," He tries, striving for a cold tone. Peeta squirms under his gaze.

"A little." His voice is tight. "Is it yours?" He gestures to the piano, and Cato folds his arms.

"Clove's," It gives him an opportunity to search Peeta's face when his lady is mentioned. The boy is hard to read. He wonders, maybe if he divulges a little more, then it will be easier. But, feeling like this, and seeing Peeta like that, Cato isn't up for another battle. The boy only just got his hand back, and that took some creativity on the surgery side.

Peeta looks at the piano, as if considering something, and then speaks woodenly. "Does she play?"

Cato feels himself stiffen, bending a little at the elbows. "She used to. She hasn't played in a while." All of a sudden, he remembers the last day she played, and his mouth snaps shut, jaw clenching. He doesn't want to talk about it anymore. Especially not to Peeta, who will use the words against him, who Clove probably loves more. Hell, if they touched, she would rather sleep on the surly pantry floor than in Cato's bed. That's Clove for you: she follows the smell of flowers.

Peeta makes a noise of interest and dips his head. "Why did she stop?" Cato feels his face go flush, and Peeta's still looking at him, so innocuously: God's Bread, it makes him furious.

"I don't know," He says, sullenly. Peeta stands up, from the stool.

"Was she good?"

Cato shrugs. "I don't remember anything about it," He says.

He lies. He remembers everything about it. Because Clove had been sick, and in the morning Cato came down to find her singing, for the first time, really signing while she played a song about a girl names Jessica, and how they must get older. It was raining and he had three dreams about the forest, all in a row. In the afternoon, she went out, and Cato stayed in, staring at the keys that waited for her to return. And when she did she cried harder than the rain, shivering violently.

Clove didn't look at Cato at all, save for once. And even then, her eyes were dead, and he smile was cut from a magazine. A sob wracked her as she said 'we're going to have a baby, Cato'. That was the last day she ever played.

Sometimes, Clove sits across the room, and her eyes skirt the keys, her longing to play turning to resentment, and hatred. She will never touch it in the same way she doesn't touch Peeta. There is no physical contact, but there is want and desire and emotion. All of which are catalyzed by the lack of touch.

Cato feels the need to break the silence. "How'd you hurt your nose?" The boy freezes, his eyes turning to ice, and then he raises an eyebrow at Cato, almost offended. It's not as if Cato actually cares how the boy feels, he's a Surplus, and they're not employed to have feelings.

"You don't remember?" Cato's hand, with the blood on the back, stays tucked into him. Is he, by nature, so violent? Trying to remember makes his brain ache. "In the garden?" Cato shakes his head. Peeta sighs.

"For a few weeks, Clove had me working on it.. To make it look like the arena you were in," Cato looks anywhere but the boy. "I rebuilt the cornucopia and re-rooted all the trees. You came outside, and you saw it..." Peeta stretches and adjusts his plain, white shirt before clearing his throat. "Would you like some tea?"

Cato becomes worried, but fights showing it. The Surplus is smart, and he hides his emotions well. Two can play at that. Hell, the whole household does most days, because Clove smiles at Peeta but doesn't touch him and touches Cato but never smiles. "What did I do, Peeta?"

Then, it hits him.

"Where's Clove?" Peeta freezes, halfway in the kitchen, and walks back out. His expression is calm, so Cato clings to that. The Surplus has a kind expression, beneath the small spread of plaster. Why does he try kindness to Cato, who only ever answers in fury? First was his hand. Now, it's his nose. And worst of all, Cato doesn't remember a thing.

"She's down at the hospital." It's a poor choice of words, certainly. Cato feels himself go cold and slack.

"What happened?" Cato's voice crawls out of him, tiny, lifeless, pathetic. Peeta shakes his head, holding out his hands as if to try and calm a wild animal.

"Peace." He begins, oddly. "Peace, she's fine. It was already planned, or something. You didn't hurt her." he sighs to himself, crumpling a bit. The thing is, Cato knows his behavior could be considered a little unusual, at best, the early stages of schizophrenia at worst. But he fears he's powerless to stoop himself, once the Peacekeeper inside of him surfaces.

In a rare moment of total abandonment, Cato speaks in a simple voice. "You kissed her." Peeta's face goes red. It burns fiercer than the Girl on Fire and Cato folds his arms again. He's not sure how to feel, because it isn't jealousy rising in him. The boy nods, at last.

"It's illegal for a Surplus to kiss his owner." Peeta whispers, knowingly. He looks up, expecting to find a threat, taken aback when there is none. Cato laughs at him.

"Then I'll have to arrest her, too. She kissed you back." Peeta frowns, totally disorientated.

"It's not illegal for her to kiss me. Just the other way around." Cato shakes his head and wanders past, into the kitchen, where the Surplus has been working tirelessly. He's good with his hands, Cato knows that.

"Aren't you a ray of sunshine, Loverboy?" He goes over to the sink and washes away the blood on his hands. No more nightmares, he prays, no more nightmares of Clove's death. She has to be alive, to serve as a reminder that the Games has some purpose, that Cato can feel justified in all of those murders. Murder isn't a word that victors normally use, anyway. Peeta stays by the door. "You like your nickname, Surplus?"

The boy similes. "It's getting a tad repetitive." Which cues Cato to take a step forward. As he does so, the boy takes an equally large step back.

"What's the matter, Loverboy? Anybody'd think you don't like me," He jests. Peeta fiddles with his hands.

"Don't be silly." He shoots back. "A sensitive guy like you, never resorting to violence. What's awkward about it?"

None of them mention Clove.

"So, you play the piano?" Peeta nods. "Very well?" he shrugs. "Pretty well?" He nods.

Maybe it's the PTSD. Maybe it's the episode he had earlier but Cato needs an outlet and right now the notes of 'Via Purifico' are falling in his head like raindrops.

"Could you teach me?" He asks. Peeta shrugs.

"I don't know how to teach."

"You kissed me wife," Cato hedges, grinning.

Peeta throws up his hands, also smiling, and heads back to the stool. He cracks his knuckles and settles them in a position. It's going well enough, Cato thinks. It might just be enough to pull his mind away from the arena, and the Surplus is proving useful.

"What can you already play?" The boy asks.

Cato feels so clever when he says. "The Valley song."

But then the smile gets wiped off his face.


	11. Act 3, Scene 3

All of the flowers in the room die.

Cato stares first at the keys of the piano, only slightly yellow with age, and then at Peeta, who's eyes must be some kind of jazz, a dangerous blues. His last words are shot across the room and shiver back to him, still so innocent, potentially lovely, perpetually human. The words of the song flit around in his stomach like paper birds, their sweat running like ink.

Peeta's mouth is sewn shut. His head is filled with her, not those last, desperate moments, but as the Mockingjay, a warrior. She twirls, spinning far (too far for Peeta to spin back towards him). No braids or plaits in her hair, the Capitol and Caesar saw Katniss as Peeta had always done, this small scrap of perfection. They show her face, sometimes, as a memorial, next to the others.

The worst thing is that they show the same picture, and her lips are slightly parted, as if she's about the start singing again. His insides freeze over and go quiet, thinking about the words of the song, the images.

"Loverboy?" It's Cato, her murderer, that snaps Peeta out of his reverie. Maybe he should be angry, maybe he should blame the victor, but he cannot. The Capitol marionette, Cato, that lives in this doll's house, isn't the reason Katniss Everdeen died without a song, without a single flower to her name.

Cato snaps his fingers, impatiently. "C'mon, Loverboy, look sharp." Peeta flinches, refocusing, trying to swallow the bitter taste on his tongue and every single thought of the Girl on Fire, still twirling, and still burning, but in a place he cannot follow to.

"Right," Peeta says, in a tiny voice, moving away from the piano. "Okay. Fine. The Valley Song." Cato takes his place at the piano and looks over his shoulder, unemphatic in every way. It's not as if Peeta is looking for his sympathy, because he will find none and he deserves none, having somewhat captured Clove's attention.

"You're familiar with it, right?" Cato asks, pressing on a key and releasing a note. It sounds nervous, but comes back to him like an old friend.

(And then Cato thinks about how Clove is like the piano, sitting around looking pretty but having nobody to touch her. Peeta wants to, but cannot, and Cato wouldn't know where to begin to get the best from her. So the piano sits glumly, serving a maximum sentence. It's justice, of course, for being so timeless.)

Peeta nods. "It's a lullaby," His voice sounds weaker, but there's nothing at all he can think of doing to reinforce it. "From my District." He explains. "We sing it to children to help them sleep." And then he thinks of that tiny, dark-skinned girl, in a bed of flowers, and the shakiness of Katniss' voice, her notes trembling on the stave as the melody wound its way behind Rue and into the darkness. Into death, where none could follow.

Peeta sang it for Katniss, to himself, through his own tears. Who would sing it for him?

Cato stars down at the piano, suddenly nervous, and mutters. "I might not remember all of it. You tell me if I get it right, okay?"

Not a soul in the room would dare argue with Cato, even if the piano knows something Cato doesn't. The Surplus just nods, eyes on the echo pedal, repeating himself by taking in these gentle breaths. "Okay." he says, at last, and the piece begins.

The intro is clumsy. Like a child, the melody stumbles a bit, looking for purchase, and finding it, eventually. Everything else becomes secondary and irrelevant, apart from the listening, so intense that it becomes an entity in itself. Cato's hands work like sleeping, with great difficulty at first, but then succumbing to the natural way, becoming masterful in confidence.

He murmurs the words to keep the tempo of the adagio.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when again they open, the sun will rise. _

Peeta's vision fades, until the piano before him is distant, and a pair of grey eyes look into his, no longer grim or sad or macabre, but full of vitality, and hanging on each rest, each syncopation. In this darkness of his imagination and the flattery of the indigo quart-light the Girl on Fire is smouldering with something over than flames, and she starts to sing, also, her voice more confident, but by no means loud.

The listening becomes like a journey,, and the path is difficult and twisted. Some of the notes slip into flats or chromatics, mistakes that crack Peeta's imaginings and confuse his memories of her.

Because Katniss is dead and gone and now there's only Cato, brutal Cato, with the song escaping from his lips in a tiny, comforting wave that Peeta can stand in without getting wet when what he desires most is to drown, and be swallowed by a tide of the song. Despite the mistakes, the piece continues to move along, sounding different and somehow warmer in this District's accent.

What Cato struggles most with is the left hand. That can be fixed. And the songs can be changed and the words can be re-written but she will never sing the song again. Peeta finds himself joining in, choked by tears that betray his heart.

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you. _

Here is not the place he loved her. Nor was the Seam, or the arena. He would have loved her in a place far away from the grey, and the crass of home, of Panem. Now, he sings it in mourning, and he needs to. No more wishing or trying to blame. In the song, that's the place her dreams are sweet, where she remains safe, and untainted by the Capitol's florescence.

The silence doesn't register until it's too late, and Cato has turned from the piano, staring at the boy. Peeta's face is red and ruddy with tears. His lips are still parted slightly, ready to sing again, some more, because goodbyes always seem too short and he isn't quite done with love, even if love might be done with him. The piano sits by, quietly, watching them both. Flowers dare to peek from the rubble of it all.

Instead of trying to hide himself, Peeta sniffs. "That was it, yeah."

Cato opens his mouth, and then shuts it. He looks about helplessly, having no clue how to staunch emotional bleeding. He keeps quiet, he always has done, and here's Peeta, challenging it all by feeling so freely and unashamedly.

"My hands were kinda shaky." He tries, striving for the ordinary. The piano suddenly makes him feel a bit nauseous, he feels as if he's stolen something from Peeta and he needs to return it right away. "You want to put me to shame, Loverboy?"

Swallowing again, Peeta wrings his hands because they are heavy, there's too much on his sleeves and it's too much to do with this place. "I should start making lunch." The excuse is silly, but it's something.

For once, Cato seems to hear behind the words. "And some more bread, too?" The boy nods.

He has all but departed when he gets called back. "Hey, 12?"

Peeta sighs. "It's Peeta."

"It's what?"

The Surplus reminds himself of where he is. The embedded time on his wrist is comfortable, now, no longer swollen and sore. It reminds him of His Place, so he says. "It's nothing. What did you need?"

Cato looks at him, edgily. "I loved her first. Remember that." He shuts the lid of the piano. Nothing more is said.

Silent.

These pleasant spaces have become filled with the silent, all dressed in uniform white, with their uniform misery and their melancholia surgically attached. This is what the usual surplus conforms to: the silence, the spangled collars that detail which house they belong to, and the bruises swelling one eye shut or keeping lips purple, which indicates ownership better than anything else.

They go about the square with arms full of sundries and food, heading back with heads down. Some are pulled by masters and their children, cruellest of them all, indeed the most wicked. A few of them are medics, with the green pin on their breast, weaving through the crowds to get here and there. Others, in navy, are private tutors, treated one hell of a lot better than regular domestics. It's illegal to collar them in this District.

Clove knows it's on the cusp of Games season by the influx of Capitol tourists, and their own domesticated Surpluses. She knows because academy students have been starting fights anywhere, all desperate to get the chance to volunteer and bring pride to the District.

Was Clove ever like that? She feels ashamed to think about it. The Games are not as simple as they make out. She would know. She got the first kill.

She comes from the hospital, an enormous, white marble beast with accents of gold lettering. What is all this vaingloriousness down here? Peeta must think they as monsters, living in such opulence with the squalor that rages in his District. Her face becomes hot, and she tries to reason with herself. What does she care what Peeta thinks? He never even thinks to touch her.

Well, then, he can go hand because there's always Cato who is plenty willing to touch her, and what a man, he's a man of wax; Panem's summer has not such a flower.

She thinks about what she's just been discussing, and how she'll have to talk to Cato, Jesus, she's going to have to plan. Thinking about a future trapped here, in an empty house with Cato makes her feel physically heavy, and she stops in the square, taking a bench and watching the marketplace fill.

Back home, he's probably still sleeping and having intensely graphic nightmares over the arena, over all that he's seen. Behind closed doors, Clove hears their whispers against him, and how he's some kind of demon, or monster, unhinged. It isn't right to bring Peeta into that, and it would only be worse to bring in a child.

They thought long and hard about what they were going to do. And Clove would have been swift with it, would have let her future been full of nightmares, because she had sworn she would never offer up more cannon fodder to the Games, not ever. Any child of a victor was always bait. But then, it was Cato, too quiet, too still, like a wrong hushed-up that swayed her.

No more death. It stalks them like a shroud, and would have even more so, but he was gentle, for the first time, and he reasoned with her. 'It's your choice' he reminded her, over and over 'you decide, Clove. You tell me what we're going to do'.

So Clove, shaking with her own tears and concerns for the future and the Games and anybody forced to endure Cato's wrath, let herself feel nothing when she told him just what was happening.

Here she is, watching the teenagers fight and the children tease and the Surpluses, in misery's stead, go, with a small, white envelope tucked under her arm. The shade would make bleach blush, too innocent and divine. But there are no halos inside.

White etchings on the black leave her confused. She feels her face burn just looking at it, feeling for the first time just this movement, in her heart. Like somebody has grabbed her and squeezed her and now it's all coming out in a big wet wad of emotion that's going to choke her. Fearful that she'll cry (for what can only be the third time in her entire life, or so), Clove hides the sonogram in the white, again, so innocuous and sweet.

She thinks about burning it. She thinks about giving it to Cato.

Suddenly, it feels as if everybody is watching her. The rows of windows from the townhouses become like eyes and she feels the need to escape. Maybe they've seen what's inside of the white, it doesn't matter. Everybody will know soon enough, because just like in the Capitol, people believe it's their god-given right to know every detail of their victor's lives, from what they wear to who they fuck.

Clove swallows anything that could move her to feel, and makes herself brief.

She buys flowers, for whatever reason. It makes sense at the time, it saves her from returning empty-handed. They always seem to fill the house, so she buys the ones that are yellow like Cato's hair and then the ones that are blue like Peeta's eyes, and the blue ones are scarcer and much more expensive. They come from outside the District, some variation on Galbana Lillies, that grow where beauty would have no business.

She's about to leave when she sees the knick-knack stall, not exactly a high-end business, but it rolls in and out of the square when the merchant has enough to get himself there. The man is withered and old, with one hand and one stump, that he scratches, watching Clove as her eyes pass over his stock.

One thing in particular catches her fancy.

"This." She says to him, picking up the tiny lion carving, with it's silk tongue and proud scruff. "How much?"

The stump-handed merchant shrugs. "A lovely piece from 12." He explains. "Handmade, too. How's three pieces?"

For whatever reason, she thinks of the forest back in 12 and then she thinks of Peeta, trying to picture him there, or sitting by a fire, whittling away stray bits of wood and cutting up an old, soiled nightdress for the tongue, and the scruff. It has one paw extended, mouth open in a silky raw, so small but fierce and brave and proud.

She could not bear the one Cato had afforded her, with all of the pride sapped from it's raw, it's dignity diminished by the crass method with which it was paid. Clove digs into her purse, avoiding the envelope, and then pulls out a crisp note.

"Here," She says. The merchant looks in disbelief. "Take it, please." She leaves fast, trying to keep her face blank, but so happy and terrified and unsure. She can feel him watching her go the strange girl, the victor, who paid twenty pieces for what everyone else seems to believe it garbage.

Clove near-runs all the way out of town, and then past the academy, with it's wide open doors into the first training hall. From within, the knives clank and maces are thrown. Bows break their strings that children would play, making a symphony of horrors. She pauses, briefly, against a nearby tree, hearing them shout and thinking about the past, and the future.

Here is the place when Cato first met her. It's the place she would spend most of her time, where she can no longer bear to be around. And she swears, with her fingers curled into fists, that she'll send no child of hers to fit in, as another cog in the murder machine.

From behind her, an unfamiliar voice calls out.

"Miss Clove!" She turns, to address the speaker who can be no more than ten, but looks younger, with enormous eyes and gaps in her teeth. The tiny girl runs towards her, from further up the hill, and tears off her backpack. "Miss Clove, are you here to teach?"

Clove shakes her head, leaving the girl crestfallen.

"Oh." Sullenly, the child spits. "Only, your Cato comes to teach swordplay and people said you might come an' teach bout knives."

Clove feels as if there's no oxygen left in the air and she staggers back a bit, unsure of what to say to the girl. She isn't nurturing, she never was, and however ironic, Cato is much better at dealing with kids. Still, those eyes are on her and she has to say something.

"I wouldn't be very good anymore." She says, carefully. "It's been a long time." Of course, to a child, that means nothing, and anybody in this District always seems to revere Clove as this skilled, level-headed victor when really, she's be a memory if she didn't have Cato, who has saved her life in more ways than one. It's that reason she feels like she's betraying her husband every time she looks at Peeta, or think about him, or remembers kissing him.

The child scrambles into her jacket and pulls out a knife, a throwing knife. Something that clove hasn't dared touch since she left the arena, and all of a sudden she feels like Cato had done, earlier, when he'd seen their garden, done to match the arena. The blade winks coyly at her, outstretched, a recognisable evil in the hands of one so innocent, and sweet.

"Please, Miss Clove!" The child pleads. "They say you're the best we ever had,"

With great caution, Clove takes the knife, feeling the weight settle in her hand, and before she has even made a conscious through, she already has the blade pinched between her finger and thumb, as she was always taught, considering the weight and how she should execute the throw. All before a target has even been sought. The hammer grip doesn't work for Clove, s she uses a firm pinch grip and looks down at the child expectantly.

"The tree!" The girl choruses. "Hit right beneath that branch, there."

Clove steps back and re-affirms her pinch grip. For the throw, the weight is shifted to the left foot while the right arm with the knife is brought to the front. Her instructor's voice is present in her head, explaining the throw motion sequence again and again. She can hear the screams and cries of everybody her knife has touched. She hears Cato, at fourteen, wrenching a knife from the table besides him and smirking 'neat trick, Clover. Shame you missed'.

The noise becomes too great. She steps into the throw and lets go of the knife with an evil hiss, then hears a muted thud. When she looks again, the knife is up to the hilt in soft bark, right beneath the branch.

The girl explodes in clapping. Clove can feel herself shaking, all teary, and turns away. "Why are you sad, Miss Clove? Your throw was perfect!"

She walks, but the child follows her, and it's not what she needs right now, a reminder, she needs Peeta with his soft eyes and his clever words and his flowers. She adjusts the cheaper, yellow bouquet and breathes them in.

"No, it's not that." Clove smiles faintly, sniffing.

The girl persists in this subliminal torture. "Come back soon, Miss Clove, you could teach us an awful lot,"

_Teach you about what?_ Clove thinks to herself. _Teach you how to kill? To lose your soul to the Capitol for sponsors?_

She carries the thought home with her, to the house when darkness Is just setting in. The yellow flowers get put in the sitting room, standing tall for everybody to see, and the oceanic cobalt, the blue flowers like Peeta' eyes sit on her dressing table, watching over the things that make her beautiful but never passing judgement.

She takes one of the yellow flowers from the vase in the sitting room and places it on the stand by Cato's bed, along with the white envelope. It sits, undisturbed.

When she comes downstairs at midnight, her mind furiously trying to scrubs itself of the contents of the envelope, the sonogram, she stops on the stair, alarmed.

The only person downstairs is Peeta, and it's always like that. Cato is a heavy sleeper, he doesn't wake for want of water, or food. There's nobody else in the house. So why can she hear the piano?

The melody is ominous and winding, and she remembers it from being a child. But, then, she sang it innocently, and then when in her teens she'd sing it about Cato, and how she would shimmy out of her bedroom window and down the tree, just too see Cato by the lake, just out of town. There was nothing there but the stars and the water, and she'd murmur the tune as she crept into the clearing, her voice silenced when she found him.

_Strange things did happen here  
No stranger would it be  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

She continues down the stairs and into the sitting room where Peeta plays a quiet, hushed melody on her piano, the one serving a maximum sentence for being timeless. She feels herself first go angry, that the Surplus dares to touch her piano, but then peace. It's the words that strike her_. 'If we met up at midnight_…' and here they are, with his hands gliding over the soft sharps and flats, and Clove watching, wanting –no, needing, to feel the notes beneath her fingers but afraid, and distant.

He turns his head, the boy, and smiles. The blue of his eyes matches the flowers on her dressing table, rare and precious Galbanna Lillies. But not once does he stop playing, the melody radiating from his skin, and not his lips when he sings or the piano when he plays.

Clove finds herself signing with him in the last verse.  
_  
__Are you, Are you  
Coming to the tree  
Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.  
Strange things did happen here,  
No stranger would it be,  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

When the piece finishes, Peeta's hands pull away and then the piano becomes sad, and closed, just like Clove, sitting pretty but having nobody to touch her, or make her sing.

"I used to play that song." She says, at long last. Peeta stands, awkwardly, taller than her but not by much.

"Cato says that you don't play anymore." The words distance them immediately. The mention of Cato makes Clove much more aware of her wedding ring, and of the component embedded in Peeta's wrist.

"Yeah, well." She crosses the room and pulls out the draw in the coffee table. She lifts out a plain white box. "Cato only talks because he likes the sound of his own voice."

Peeta shrugs. "If people only spoke when they had something to say, you think anybody in the Capitol would talk?"

The idea makes Clove laugh, it takes her mind off of the sonogram and the imminence of the Games and the idea of having to go anywhere near the Capitol, to be surrounded by their creepiness, their false generosity and duplicity. She likes this side of Peeta, intelligent and critical and rebellious. He's one of the only people she knows that doesn't believe everything they are spoon-fed by the press.

"No, I guess not." And she hands him the box. "I saw something that reminded me of you today."

She leaves quickly, to let Peeta ruminate over the little lion without asking questions. She cannot fathom into words why it resembles Peeta so, perhaps in it's dignity and courage, how, from one of the hardest places in the world could come something so beautiful. That's the one, Clove thinks. Sic parvis magna: greatness from small beginnings.

Of course, she can't just tell him that in the same way that they can't ever touch. The rules are strict, but unwritten.

It leads her back up the stairs, far too early back into the room where cobalt blue flowers have swollen and left a scent that mixes with her tulip perfume. Clove is all at ease, in deep thought over the lion carving then she enters the room. What winds her is Cato, sat above the sheets with the white envelope in his hands, staring down in deep concentration. She's scared again, she doesn't belong in the situation. There are no knives, no objectives, no targets to hit, and the vagueness overwhelms her.

"Clove." He says, his voice darker than usual. She's too struck to think and just shakes her head, desperately, paling. Will he be angry? Or worse, is he going to react like earlier, with violence and aggression? Instead, Cato actually smiles, warm, and not beautiful, but radiant as the sun. "What's the matter, _sweetheart_, Surplus still got your tongue?"

Safe in his joke, Clove spits back. "Same to you, _darling_. Mom still got your balls?"

He laughs: golden and from his belly, before sitting up a little, and letting his face grow more serious. It makes Clove nervous, makes her want to get away from his eyes, and their curiosity, it makes her want to go back to Peeta, where she can't be held accountable.

"We're good at this, you know." Cato says, carefully. Clove raises her eyebrows, staying firmly by the door, still afraid.

"I'm glad you get so much satisfaction from our lack of meaningful interaction." She smirks, arms akimbo. For the first time in ages, it isn't so strained, she doesn't feel the need to escape under Cato's eyes. They belong, she thinks. Not that she doesn't still want Peeta, but she does have this imperial affinity for Cato.

He scoffs. "Lack?" She nods. "Come over here, Clove."

She crosses the room, and sits on the edge of the bed. "What now, you stupid bastard?" It makes him laugh again.

And Cato could kiss her right now, he could do it, lean in and close the gap and she'd kiss back and he could put his hand on the nape of her neck and she could sigh softly. Cato wants to bite her lip and suck Peeta's name out of her mouth, so it never comes up in conversation. He wants to smell the violets on her skin, and he could right now, but it's not the time, and the moment passes too quick.

"Red makes you look consumptive," He says, just to be difficult, and then Clove is laughing, which she so rarely does thesedays.

"You bought it for me." Clove says, tugging on open of the straps of her nightgown. "And I hate it." Cato leans forward and takes the spaghetti strap between his thumb and finger.

"Maybe you should take it off." He hedges. Clove holds back a laugh.

"Maybe I will." So Cato puts a hand on her shoulder and smooths it down her front, feeling over the heat radiating through the wine-coloured nightgown. There are three layers between them –her dress –the sheets –his clothes. It feels less, and then one of his hands is on her neck and the other has settled on her stomach, and they're kissing like they should be but so rarely do. One of her hands is on his heart, pushing him away all the while deepening and allowing.

His heart rate explodes and he starts to feel the tiniest bit nervous, because Clove feels like a fiery champagne, heaven bottled. She knocks one of his hands away.

"I'm really tired." She sighs, and shoves him away further. There are no questions asked, because there are no words either of them can fathom to aptly consolidate how they feel. She moves away, down to the other end of the bed, shutting off the lamp and leaving the room in darkness.

And not a single word is said on the matter further.


	12. Act 3, Scene 4

One month to the Games.

Clove struggles to sleep because it's only getting hotter and hotter and Peeta is quieter and quieter and the thought of his skin in the night makes her nauseous.

She's been hallucinating Peeta's face at the back of other boys, and they turn around, smiling, with no recognition in their eyes. In her bedroom, on the dresser, the blue flowers sit, and fill the room like a friendly ghost. The house is getting warmer, and soon enough she's spilling out into the garden in the evenings, and during the day when it's too hot. Down by the trees, in front of the twisted metal that Peeta had so carefully reconstructed.

Cato stays inside, and everybody carefully says nothing about it.

She hears him, sometimes, stumbling over a piece of music in the parlour, and it strikes her first as strange. Peeta's a much better player, on all counts. Cato is hamfisted at the best of times, but Jesus Christ, he tries, and eventually the most beautiful little melodies hammer out of the body. It makes her wonder about that piano, and about her, looking pretty, gathering dust, and all of a sudden Cato, of all people, is starting to pick off where once Clove had found so much joy.

The thought drives her up the wall, in this haze of lamplit lemon hair, and blue, blue eyes and it becomes something so dizzy that Clove is unsure if she can stare it in the face. Eventually, she asks, because she can do nothing but.

Cato is in the parlour, struggling over this melody (just the right hand of 'Via Purifico') when she wanders in, fresh from the garden, adjusting the pattern on her dress: silk, from 8, that Cato had brought her, two months after they had been married. It was supposed to be consolation for a particularly nasty fight. As soon as he notices her presence, he stops immediately and moves away from the keys, as if somehow ashamed.

"How is Hades this time of year?" He chides to her. "Met the folks?"

Clove rolls her eyes. "Your wit slays me." And then Cato stands up and moves across the table, to pour himself a glass of water. He sets down on one sofa, and Clove sits across from him, sitting forward, agitated. After a few minutes of stifling silence, Peeta comes in; head bowed, eyes downcast, and fills it up with ice. He murmurs apologies, before withdrawing to the back of the room, and not leaving.

"Cato?"

He looks up at her, with an eyebrow raised. "Clove?" She swallows, trying not to look at Peeta, and failing, as she musters the question on her tongue.

"If you loved me-" She feels herself blushing, and takes another sip, for good measure. Cato, quite thankfully, says nothing. "—and we could never, ever touch…would you eventually get bored…and move on?"

The question sits there in the air for a few minutes, and when Clove looks up she can feel Peeta's gaze, inquisitive and shy, on her. It's not unwelcome, but Cato's answer makes her nervous, and she has no idea what to do with herself while he ruminates. The man in question sets down his glass, with this coy smile, shaking his head and laughing, quietly.

"If I loved you?"

Clove coughs. "Yeah."

Cato runs a finger along the stem of the glass, drawing in air before he finally looks at Clove. "Then I'd love you in any way I could." But, of course, Clove isn't looking at him. Her dizzy mind if fixed on the sight behind him, the boy with sandy hair and blue eyes like Galbanna Lillies, who plays with hands gentler than his own. She seems lost, ignoring his words.

But Cato continues. "And if we couldn't touch, I'd only have to look at you, Clove." She looks at Peeta, who finally looks back, and he nods, he looks at her and Clove has to wonder. She remains completely death to all that Cato says to her. "If I lost my sight, I'd have you talk to me, always, about the contents of your thoughts."

Clove drops her eyes, but she can still feel that boy, staring down at her.

"And if I couldn't hear I'd have you near me, so that I could feel you, until I died, Clove, until I had to wake up again to look for you." His voice is weaker and more shy, so unlike him in many ways but also so fitting. Cato look at her for some kind of response, or direction, he so desperately wants to know if he has done right and Clove is still looking at Peeta.

"Clove?"

She shrugs, and gets up again. "Forget it."

For the time being, the romantic gesture is lost on Clove. The water in her glass seems far too bitter, and unsubstantial, too. The only reason Cato lets her go was because he knows, just as well as Peeta, that it will not be her last glass.

+

Three weeks to the Games.

The bedroom feels far too hot. It's a combination of the season: the sweltering summers they have always enjoyed here, in this part of Panem, and Clove's position, sweating through the nightgown and beneath the blankets and tucked under one of Cato's enormous arms. As usual, he's already asleep, his face unreadable making nightmares undetectable until the second before they strike, like lightning.

There are still a few scars hinted at across his cheeks. Flecks of white, here and there, so small that nobody would ever guess. They always remark on it in the Capitol, and it's not that Clove isn't aware of how beautiful he is. He's strong and charming and witty, too, even if sometimes he seems to forget. It's easy, she knows, to fall in love with Cato for that, because he's not good at talking to her, he doesn't know how to say, and it drives him to anger.

That's not his fault. Clove isn't blaming him. But then she'll see Peeta, with his jokes, and the right words for everything and it makes her so—Christ, so angry but to enamoured all at once. This upsetting mixture of infatuation and regret.

Why is it always a mixture?

She can't sleep because she's thinking about that piano, and how Peeta touches it and not her. She can't sleep because the room is so hot, and even though it's been a few weeks since she first felt it, but that flutter inside of her is still strange and she's not sure if she likes it. That, alone, is Cato's fault, and she blames him because she feels nothing else on the matter. Having the baby isn't exactly a million-dollar idea, but neither was getting married, or volunteering, or being born in this District. It would seem everything so far has been a string of ill choices.

From downstairs, she hears Peeta shuffle out into the parlour and lift the piano lid. He starts to play in a Dorian minor, and she knows the song because she used to sing it. The melody has her asleep before she knows it, listening to the baker but being tucked in the victor's arms, smelling his skin, and feeling his lips in her hair whilst her body sighs and her brain chants 'wrong wrong wrong'.

She starts to dream, too.

_The melody winds down on the wind, and Clove can feel blood on her wrists. It begins, as all dreams do, in the middle of everything, and she has no recollection of how she came__ to be here or why she is. It's stifling in the dream, too, and when she finally looks around there are fires, but in particular, the house, going up in such smoke. The windows belch soot and vomit flickering orange at her. __  
__  
Her hands are bound. She realises it, suddenly, behind her back, they have her wrists held together in some kind of rope and when Clove tries to get up, and run towards the house where she's suddenly so scared Peeta is, or Cato might be, she falls into the grass and starts to scream bloody murder. __  
__  
She feels hands on her. A blade against her neck as Clove is heaved to standing again. __  
__  
"Peeta-" She sobs, deliriously. "Where's Peeta?" Her assailant heaves her, with a sharp tug of the hair and the blade nips part of her neck. Clove loses it again and starts to screech, frantically. "Cato!" He always saves her, he's never too late, but then she hears this strangely familiar laugh. It's female, and then all of a sudden Clove is spun around to face whoever it is that wants her dead. __  
__  
"He can't save you!" The girl hisses. Then, she laughs, and spits. Clove blinks, furiously struggling, screaming out profanities. She realises suddenly, all too suddenly, that the girl is from 12. The girl is Katniss. __  
__  
"Peeta-" But it does her no good. __  
__  
Katniss lines the blade up to her throat again and whispers, too amused, too bitter "Wanna blow Loverboy one last kiss?" She laughs, maniacally. By the hair, she drags Clove to the moth of the cornucopia, still a good seven metres in the air, where they've fixed a noose to the lip of the horn by a long, twisted spike of metal. It seems even higher in her dream, distorted, and the noose is at the length to break a neck. __  
__  
__Are you, Are you__  
Coming to the tree__  
Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me? __  
__  
Peeta is stood up __top;__ his hands bound similarly, a noose already sitting pretty like a necklace around his throat. __When he sees Clove, being dragged towards the cornucopia, he goes to call out but is silenced. Others, Clove can see, standing around wand watching. They are not here by a happy accident. Each one of them, from the ages of twelve to eighteen, small and sly to colossal, are all dead. They were all killed by Cove, or Cato's hand, and now, they seem to want some reversal. __  
__  
But what did Peeta do? __  
__  
__Clove gets handed roughly from tribute to tribute under they stand her at the top of the cornucopia next to Peeta. They shake so violently, despite the heat. Clove watches the house burn, watching the piano burn with it, and she hopes that the flames will catch and devour her. __  
__  
She can't even reach out to touch Peeta's hand. She can't even touch him now, in this nightmare. __  
__  
"You came." He whispers, this oxymoronic smile ghosting across his face. Clove manages to choke out a response. She might repeat herself, a little louder, if a voice from below doesn't interrupt her. It's then that the image is completed, they slip a noose around her throat, too, tightening it, and Clove can't help but think he looks so good in blue; she can't help but be thankful to die by his side. __  
__  
"We charge you with the __abetted__ murder of your patron." A small girl in a gossamer gown, who is twelve but her looks are more of a __t__en-year-old, starts. She addresses Peeta, and even now, he refuses to be shaken. At first, Clove feels a bit safer, but then the words sink in. She steps away from him, shakily. __  
__  
"But-" She stammers, choked by her own understanding. "You hurt Cato-" None stop to listen to her. __  
__  
"How do you plead?" Peeta swallows. __  
__  
"I did it for love." But nobody cares to listen to a dead man. Already, he's a corpse. __  
__  
"We find you guilty." The girl says, with no actual emotion in her voice. __And then she turns to Clove. "How do you plead?" __  
__  
She starts to feel faint, and Christ, crucified Christ, where's Cato? She needs him. The house is burning and she cannot breath and Peeta is going to die but Cato is nowhere, that beautiful, brilliant man cannot save her as he has done before and this is all of her fault. "Cato!" She wails, anyway. "Please –Cato-"__  
__  
That one from 12, Girl on Fire, snaps. "He can't save you!" She screams "You murdered him!" __  
__  
It cuts deeper and worse than any vorpal blade. Then comes the staggered onslaught of thought. "No…" Clove shakes her head, furiously. "No, I love him!" Peeta turns to her, his face fixed in betrayal and horror and he shakes his head back at her. __  
__  
"It's too late, Clove." They take him, tightening the noose, offering the blindfold. He shakes his head, and smiles at her, even though there is blood coming from his eyes because he is no fucking scared. "I want to look at you until we die." __  
__  
Somebody takes Clove, and tightens her own rope necklace. The little girl from eleven speaks again. __  
__  
"We find you, too, guilty of the abetted murder of your husband. We sentence you to death." __  
__  
Clove feels the fire on her face. They push Peeta, first. She follows him. __  
__  
__(__Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be__…__if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree…__)__  
__  
_When Clove opens her eyes there are tears blinding her. She feels as if her lungs are on fire, and all that she exhales is carbon monoxide. It's too hot and she's too scared to think, to even exist. That occasional flutter in her tummy is drowned out by the hammering in her chest and the backflips her stomach has taken to.

"Clove?"

She leans across the side of the bed and vomits, her body shaking as some kind of toxin leaves her. The hands on her back come as an unwelcome surprise and she screams out, this piercing whimper, kicking n=and fighting until she's surrounded by a safe, familiar pair of arms.

"Come on." Cato says, his voice gentle. She breaks down into a hysterical fit of sobs, relieved to have him here, and scared by all that she's seen and confused about what the dream is saying of Peeta. It's another dizzy truth she can't quite stare in the face yet. "Come on, you're fine,"

"I'm sorry." She gets out, breathless with indignation. "I'm so-"

"You don't have to be sorry." He assures her. Cato's awfully good at this, really, comforting and all of that. He's never been a particularly emotional person, but somehow Clove feels safe. It's enough to have him alive, she thinks, but to have him _loving_, which he so rarely is, all loving with his head on her shoulder and his chest against her back, is more than enough. She can feel his heart through his chest, and he uses his thumb to rub small circles onto her stomach. "Bad dream?"

Clove furiously wipes at her eyes. She nods, once. "Uh-huh,"

Cato nods in understanding. "Arena?" She nods, and he makes another soft noise of understanding. "I'll have the Surplus get you a glass of-" But Clove grabs him and doesn't let go.

"Please," She sniffs. "Stay."

Three weeks to the Games, and she's already screaming.

+

Two weeks to the Games, and the party begins.

It's something to celebrate, in this District. A chance at bringing pride and honour that no child here could turn down. They train, furiously, and Clove is finally part of this adult society, where they stay in stylish rooms and drink from silly glasses and discuss lukewarm topics, hinting at the fact that their children are going to win, that they have bet on the right volunteer. All before the reaping.

It's a chance to prepare for the awful company in the Capitol, at least. It's hosted by whoever has the most influence, she supposes, which thankfully isn't them. Cato goes off, is called off, into a sea of party guests with quirky fears, ready to discuss his strategy and pick scabs. He sees no problem with heartlessly abandoning Clove to these strangers. She'll get him for it.

It's funny how he works. Cato is usually quite a physical person, he likes to touch, and to tell Clove without having to talk. It's Peeta that has the problem with touch, but would go to her in a minute if something terrible happened. And, how ironic, Cato, who has never had a problem with touch in his life, can so rarely muster the gall to hold her when others are watching. Love her in any way he could, indeed.

She's acrimonious over this at the corner of the room when a voice interrupts her thought.

"Bitter much?" She turns to see a Surplus with a tray of small, antiseptic green chocolates, looking at her expectantly. Clove blushes, gritting her teeth.

"Excuse me?" She's ready to slap the Surplus to remind him of His Place when he continues.

"The sweets taste sweeter with the bite of the bitter." Clove coughs, trying to find Cato in the sea of people, unhappy at being left adrift with her best company as a Surplus. She never liked parties like this in the first place, and how she has to bother with making an impression. The gossip is all about them tonight, her stylist has reminded her, and they have Clove in this hideous floor-length red number that makes her look more drowned than pregnant.

Still, it's an easy way of making conversation with the more vacuous and vapid ones.

"How…" Clove takes a little green sweet from the ray and places it under her tongue, avoiding the too-heavy taste that most of this imported Capitol food bears. "…quaint." She finished, unsure how offensive she's allowed to be tonight. It might be a good idea to get it all out now instead of leaving it boiling over in the Capitol. The Surplus nods, and goes to depart.

"A minute." Clove ushers him back. "Our hosts." She looks at the boy, no more than nineteen, but looking more boyish. "They're your patrons?" He nods.

"Yes, miss." It serves as an answer.

"And how are they involved in the Games?" He nods.

"Head Gamemaker this year." The boy smiles to himself, this corkscrew-turning kind of malicious look painting his features.

"Anything good?" Clove regrets asking it as soon as she gets her answer.

The Surplus laughs. "I assure you, Miss Clove, you'll find it _simply unforgettable_."

Elsewhere, Cato comes to the same conclusion. He starts another flute of champagne and tries to ignore the conversations around him.

It's all going well enough until he sees a slim arm dart out from behind him and select a glass from the tray on the table. From just left of his ear, a woman speaks.

"I'm sure you don't mind me," The woman says, in a warm voice. "I simply cannot get enough of this Pernod-Ricard." She comes to Cato's side and takes a long sip. The woman looks about twenty-six or so, with dark brown hair pulled away from her face. Not unlike dissociation, her face has been bleached to be paler, and her lips are an unfading blood-red.

"Not at all." He says, cordially, moving aside. She moves with him, like a shade.

"Victoria Heavensbee." She extends a tiny hand that Cato could quite easily crush if he shook too hard. Her nails are long, and just as red as her lips. "My husband is the head gamemaker this year." Cato makes a noise of understanding, and Victoria laughs. "Oh, well I'm sure you already knew that much." He tries to smile. "Are you here to bask in the glory of your previous win?" Victoria laughs again.

Cato swallows. "Not intentionally," This is true. "I'm sure this year's winner has much more to look forward to," This is not. Still, the Heavensbee woman seems to care none at all and flicks her wrists, apparently delighted by the comment.

"Bask away, by all means." The sincerity of her speech dries up suddenly. "I'm sure you deserve to."

"Thank you." Cato says, sharply. Victoria looks around the room.

"Be sure to tell your wife that I congratulate her, too." Then, her eyes flick back to Cato. They seem all too set on something nobody else can see. As if she's hyper-aware that people could overhear them. "And my blessings, too. I heard it on the grapevine that you're expecting."

Cato, only half-listening, frowns. "Expecting what?" The woman breaks out into hideous laughter.

"You are quite something. By and by, I need another glass at this rate." Cato turns to get her one, and by the time he's facing the woman again, Victoria is on her tiptoes, leaning up to whisper to him.

"What-" He manages, but Victoria cuts him off.

"There's a storm coming, Cato." She whispers, this utter cold in her voice. In the crowd of people, Cato suddenly feels so invisible, and removed. Her hand feels impossibly heavy on his shoulder. "You and your friends better batten down the hatches."

He spies Clove in between people, looking so lost, and helpless. Will the storm reach her, too? Victoria laughs.

"It's due any day now, and when it hits, it hits _hard_." Her lips get pressed against the shell of his ears and it takes all of Cato's nerve not to bat her away. "You're going to wonder how you lived so large and left so little for the rest of us." Her voice is furious. Through gritted teeth, she speaks, like a serpent, and then Victoria drops back onto her feet with a cold smile.

As she walks away, Cato just hears her say. "_Let the Games begin_."

Two weeks to the Games, and the party has begun.


	13. Act 3, Scene 5

_(Warnings for sex)_

It's two nights before the Games.

And that midnight, conversations take place that are necessary.

There are no more songs, Peeta is all out of melodies and they have to move on. It's not the time, anyway, not with the Games looming, not with Clove knowing that whatever happens, she's going to have to watch some hapless thing pipe it's way to glory, or the grave.

So, they find themselves drinking tea in a silence, with the remnants of Clove's makeup sticking under her eyes and making her look tired. She is tried, though. Of everybody. Of the Games, that she really thought she had escaped.

They never really got free. That little stunt, that threat with the double-suicide? Nobody threatens the Capitol like that, nobody makes a fool of the Gamemakers and ever gets to live very long.

Clove thinks of that one from 12, that won the last Quarter Quell by using the forcefield at the edge of the arena. A hideous alcoholic, with what left? Not long since dead anyway. She wonders if that'll happen to her, or Cato, if the Capitol decide to retaliate with murder.

Oh God, her body goes numb. Jesus Christ, who would they take from her? Cato? Peeta, or worse still, and then Clove tries not to think anymore, it hurts too much, and she can't sleep anyway.

Their conversation goes like this:

"Do you miss home?" Clove speaks first. She wets her lips, and waits for the answer. Peeta looks as he always does always so steady. It comforts her that he's that way, like furniture of the heart. The boy looks up at her, his face still a little purple from Cato's episode in the garden, but youthful and untouchable.

He considers himself. "I thought I would." His voice is soft, and older than himself, with an age deeper than years. "I thought it'd really get to me, but it hasn't." To think of him as happy here makes Clove smile. "I expected to have patrons that I hated."

Intrigued, Clove leans forward. "And do you hate us?"

Peeta is brave. "No, I don't." He assures her. Their conversations are always calm, which is nice, but almost disappointing. Clove loves the way Cato riles her, and winds her up but she'll never ever say it to him and give him that victory. "I feel sorry for you."

She laughs mirthlessly. "Yes, poor Cato, with his expensive house and his money and his pick of Capitol whores-" Peeta opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it, and then finally decides to select a few words. Clove doesn't mean to shout at him, or even to shout, but she's scared that she'll lose even one of them, and she's no good on her own, only, Christ, _she won't be alone, will she..?  
_  
"I didn't mean-" He begins, quietly. Clove waves a hand, as if trying to bat away the conversation.

"Save it." She says, and then swallows, knowing she'll have to say it, because Peeta isn't going to, he isn't always so honest. Neither of them want to either, the notion is so horrible that it robs her of all of her grace. "Look, Peeta-"

"I'll come back." He says to her. They still never touch, and at a moment like this Clove would like nothing more than to reach out and hold one of his hands, or curl up next to the baker that smells of flowers. They both know that she can't, and there's always Cato,, sleeping upstairs, that makes her feel too conflicted to move.

"You can't know that." Clove counters. She hates this conversation. She hates the Games, and she wants it all to burn, because she's not usually like this, it makes her obnoxious, it makes her hateful and she doesn't mean to be, not to Peeta, not even to Cato. What is it with him that makes her act like this?

Peeta looks down at the table, and then up again. "It's the Quell." He says, calmly. "They won't pick just anybody if they want a good show." For a second, Clove lets herself smile. At least, for now the feeling is good. She knows that the sweet will turn bitter all too quickly if his name ends up on a cursed slip of white paper.

"But if they do-" Clove sighs, closing her eyes.

"If they do?" When she looks up, Peeta is smiling at her.

"Well, if that happens-" She begins. Peeta has a habit of interrupting.

"It won't happen." She glares at him.

"But if it does-"

"Which it won't." Peeta grins.

"Why'd you kiss me?" It knocks all of the wind from Peeta's metaphorical sails and he so isn't expecting it, making that smile on his face change suddenly into this open-mouthed guilt. Like he's been caught out at something which is ridiculous because Clove was the one he was kissing and it wasn't a crime (not unless crimes of passion count, and even then, Clove's only real crime of passion is not realising the passion that Cato has for her).

He's blushing now, and he won't look at her. It annoys clove to no end, but what can she do? Peeta is a Surplus, and he's just some boy. She can't expect him to be so forward, not with that component in his wrist, and not with Clove sitting in front of him, the wedding ring glistening on the hand that smooths over her swollen stomach.

"Why did you let me?" He counters, weakly. Clove laughs out loud, shaking her head. Peeta lets out a breath, as if at last feeling safe.

"I asked first." She says, just because, and Peeta plays along because he's terrified of having to be serious with her about this, he cannot say in words why he had closed the gap between them. But instead, he says

"My question is more urgent." You can see it on his face, Peeta thinks he's won for a second, and Clove wants to slap him but she also wants something else that she can't ask for, and there they are again, sitting in this comfortable silence and thinking, because between them thinking is safe and fine and it counts as fidelity, physically. It's ironic, Clove thinks, that both her and Cato are rubbish at adultery and fidelity. They both should just choose one and stick to it.

"I should-" Clove sighs, she feels her face heat up as she speaks. She gestures to the door. "I should probably head back up. I'll need some sleep if I-"

Peeta shakes his head at her. "Clove." He says, and then when she won't look he speaks again. "Clove, calm down." Because he can see that she's shaking a little and her eyes are all shrunken with fear. It's okay to be afraid, Peeta has lived most of his life afraid. So, when he tries to calm her, he means everything he says. "Cato won't get picked. They're not going to do that."

She wipes at her face and sucks in a breath. "God, Peeta-" Her voice sounds too pathetic and small. She tries to iron out the creases in it. "Like you said, it''s the Quell." She sniffs. "They won't pick just anybody if they want a good show."

Peeta sighs, and he looks around for some kind of help, but Clove's opinions are law, and now he's rendered useless by the feeling, the cold creeping into the room like a swarm of spiders, free to crawl all over his legs and neck and face.

"Even if he did get reaped, Clove," Peeta begins, looking up at her. "He'd still have a good chance of winning. He'd still be able to get home."

Out of nowhere, Clove says. "I'm sorry."

It takes Peeta by surprise, which is rare. He's too steady, almost, he knows the worst outcomes of most situations, but this one is unscripted and more heartfelt because of it. " For what?" Clove laughs, miserably.

"You told me about your nightmare, about getting reaped." She pushes her hair out of her eyes. "And I laughed at you." She takes a breath, but Peeta perceives it as waiting a beat for some kind of morbid punchline. "I shouldn't have laughed at you. I shouldn't have done that." Her voice is barely audible.

Peeta considers his words, again, like counting cards, somehow cheating at the conversation. "I kissed you because I wanted to, Clove." His gaze in unwavering, and Clove could stare forever, but this tiny kick jolts her from her inertia, and reminds her who's side she should be on.

Without another word to her name, Clove sets her cup down onto the table. She notices the tall jug of water, from where she'd sipped as Cato answered her question, and he crime of passion comes back to her, not realising what Cato had actually said. It hits her in sudden waves, and she's drowning, unable to surface under all that she had ignored when she was staring at Peeta. "_If I lost my sight, I'd have you talk to me, always, about the contents of your thoughts.".._.Oh, God, he had been so careful with his words and Clove had tossed them aside so heartlessly.

So cannot linger when she realises it. Instead, she nods to the Surplus, this tiny, unprepared boy, who she'll wave off in the morning.

Clove heads upstairs in the darkness and back into the warm bedroom, where there are different flowers. The Galbanna Lillies needed somewhere different to bloom, so the yellow ones watch her from the bedside table now. The smell isn't so strong, and they aren't so beautiful, but she likes them.

She sits on the edge of the bed for a very long time and watches Cato, in his sleep. It his her that she has forgotten to say out loud how beautiful Cato is to her. Her perfect match, because they shout and scream and claw at eachother, but she needs him, like she needs the sunrise and the oxygen in the air. She doesn't want him to leave her, and render her useless. Maybe she doesn't tell him, because it;'s hard enough, but she loves him, more than she can actually rationalize to words. _Please_, she wants to grab him and scream, _please don't leave me_.

Of course, Clove doesn't do that. She remains where she is a little longer, wondering about him. He looked younger under the stars of the arena. They called him vicious and cruel, and for the longest time Clove believed them. When the first nightmare hit, that image fell to bits because Cato was shaking and crying and holding onto her so _damn tight_, not letting go...

She likes him best when he's vulnerable. That's when he's the Cato that saved her, down by the Cornucopia, during the feast. Only then is he so honest and caring. Usually, he plays it aloof and cool, which is ironic because he is the more emotional of the two of them.

Lost in her reverie, she doesn't notice when Cato is staring back at her. When he speaks, she flinches a damn mile.

"What?" Clove asks, embarrassed.

"I said, didn't your mother ever tell you that if you stare like that, your eyes'll roll clean out?" In the half-darkness, with cracks on the moon showing through the blinds Clove can make out this unmistakable smile, that suits Cato in every way, stupid and cocky and ridiculous. His face is dark but his eyes penetrate the darkness and speak in angel wings.

Clove wants to say something equally stupid and meaningless back, but she can't. If she opens her mouth, everything she feels will come out in this unintelligible wad of emotion and that wouldn't be fair on Cato.

He sits up slowly, and leans towards her. "You're shaking."

She tries to play it cool. "I'm just cold." She says. Cato creeps forward some more, and takes one of her hands.

"Your hands are like ice."

Clove wrestles her hand away and looks anywhere but Cato. He isn't going to catch her afraid, she won't let him. "Drop it," She tries to warn him, but her voice is starting to shake a little, and Jesus Christ, she's not going to cry in front of him, that would be the worst.

He pulls her towards him, incredibly strong still, maybe even stronger. "Your face is white, Clove." And then all of a sudden her resolve breaks and she buries herself into his shoulder, breathing in his smell and trying to memorize everything about Cato, just in case. He is baffled for the shortest of moments, his arms lifted in shock, but then he understands, and drops one against the small of her back.

"Hey," He laughs, trying to peel her away. "I'm not dead yet, sweetheart." Usually, she's have his guts for calling her sweetheart or using some clever line but God, she knows that she wouldn't be able to function a day without one. Clove tried to assemble what's left of her dignity when she sits up, pushing her hair out of her face again.

"I'm sorry." She breathes, grappling about for an excuse. The lie occurs to her as she tells it. "S'just hormones." And then Cato finds the temerity to laugh at her in this lilac half-darkness. He laughs loud and golden and Clove's face turns dark. She shoves him, but Cato is far too big to notice.

"Sorry," he says, breathless. "Please don't choke me in my sleep."

Clove narrows her eyes. "I'll think about it." She expects him to make another joke or say something meaningless and stupid but he's never been very predictable and instead he moves back a little, taking all of her in. It's one of the only things that Clove thinks is normal about their relationship: she knows that she finds him attractive. And she doesn't think Cato thinks she's ugly. At least, she hopes not. His eyes pass over her and he smiles.

"C'mere." He says, slowly, wetting his lips with his tongue. Clove knows that look, and it makes her feel something different from either lust and love. He keeps looking at her with that damned smile and she wants him just as much, she can feel herself weakening with it. "I said some here, Clove."

Steadily, she crawls from the edge of the bed, until he knees are either side of his waist. Now there are only two layers between them, and they both desire to be closer, to be much more intimate, and here it's allowed, there are no eyes prying, no blue flowers on her dressing table. Under Cato's hand, she forgets Peeta completely, she disregards his kiss, trades it for another.

Oh, Christ, crucified Christ, Cato feels good and his eyes are closed in this gentle concentration, finding her lips in the way one greets an old friend, with fondness, with such expertise. Clove forgets the rest of the world gladly, forgets the Games like they are some dull rumor of another war because right now it's just her and Cato, together, and it doesn't matter if everything burns, she wants to die here.

One of his hands drops onto her back, it moves up with the deepening of the kiss, his short nails scratching desperately, clawing and she loves it, she wants him to never let go. The other is curled around the nape of her neck, keeping her close to him, disallowing distance between them that has become such a casual criminal offense.

Needing air, Clove breaks away. "I'll let you breathe in a minute," she promises him. Cato's eyes are dark with pleasure and his lips are slightly parted in breathlessness but he looks happy like he hasn't in so long. They both need this. A physical manifestation of all they fought for.

Cato brushes her hair over her ear with a steady arm. "I'm good." He says to her, with this sideways smile. She takes him at his word.

His kisses rove lower, ans soon enough he's nipping and biting at her collar and her neck and Clove doesn't care about the games that they play, she gasps out and curls her toes, her body going taught as a bowstring and as electric as a live wire. She can hear Cato chuckle in victory as he leaves a few telltale dark marks on her shoulders. God, Clove hasn't felt like this in so long, and she tugs at the short pieces in the back of Cato's hair, ripping and letting out tiny cries.

For a second, he leans over her, to the nigthstand, and Clove wonders if he's going to leave her like this, sweating through her silk and begging him, because he's done that before. But he's merciful tonight and instead Cato flips open a small switchblade. She regards it with fear, at first, but Cato just grins, easing her onto her back, with the blade between his teeth.

"Cato-" She says, nervously. He takes it with his hand.

"Do you trust me?" His voice is devious.

Clove shakes her head. "No."

But instead of hurting her, he runs the knife along the side of her nightgown and cuts it away, before pulling from the side, and having it come away completely. The silk is frayed and ruined and it leaves Clove laying there in her underwear, frozen. In a second, Cato tosses the knife aside and goes for her.

In a second, Clove is naked, pinned by Cato's hand a few inches from her ear, and the other one on her hip. His kissing is fickle, it goes from gentle to biting and never in one place very long. Clove doesn't acre if she wakes up the damn Capitol, this is exactly what she needs, this is what has been missing and she throws her head back and groans, looking for more, looking for Cato in this strange ethereal darkness and finding him.

Her sounds only intensify when Cato's lips go lower, at first making her whimper as he swirls his tongue, raising her nipples to hard, pink peaks before suckling and he knows exactly what he's doing because it only makes Clove scream out more, thumping him on the back with her fist, and then dragging her nails back up, drawing blood in her absolute lust. It's good, too good, and she's trembling terribly, static but also electric with all of this want, and her eyes are squeezed shut.

He thinks not a second about himself. God, Clove curls her toes again and wonders how he came to be so generous and perfect and –_Christ, yes, just like this._

In the midst of the chaos, she can feel the unmistakable sensation of his hands, and Jesus Christ, he knows Clove too well, because she's soon sobbing with pleasure, too ready, wanting more, wanting the moon on a string and right now if she asked Cato for his eyes he would crawl to fetch her a scalpel.

Their eyes meet. Clove is sweating and trembling and Cato remains, as always, so collected and practiced and smirking. He waits until she nods, her eyes slipping shut again and her hips bucking up. It's then that he co-ordinates, places his hands on either side of her hips and moves into her in one slow but definite motion.

Clove lets out a pleasured, tormented sob.

Cato searches her face for pain, he asks permission with her eyes and she takes a second, breathing, growing accustomed to the sensation, before giving him another nod. He starts out slow, fighting the urge to claim her completely and it doesn't take so long before Clove's fingernails are back to scratching and her body is taught with pleasure once more and she's gasping into his ear.

He thrusts his hips and her rise to meet him and he bites her neck again to try to quiet the noises that are tumbling out his mouth. It's too late because Clove knows, she matches them with her own. Only, Jesus Christ, she's not soft or gasping, she's _wailing_ and tugging at his hair.

Soon enough she's hanging by her fingernails because something has uncoiled in the pit of her stomach and it's all so sudden but perfect, he's just-so and fast, now, the hair in his fringe sagging with sweat and swishing back and forth as he goes. His movements become more urgent and her cries more insistent.

Clove's eyes snap open as she goes, crying out for Cato, and only Cato, the name of the other blonde slipped from her mind and her tongue and her body. He follows her in a matter of seconds, grunting through his orgasm until he's watching her twitch in the sweaty sheets, still trembling, but noticeably calmer.

He tucks her back into him, and Clove falls asleep fast with her body curled into his, like a cracked piece of glass lining itself back up. It reminds him of wanting her, during the Games, longing to reach out and kiss her but knowing that there, all eyes were upon them.

She has no dreams, and niether does Cato. But it takes him a while to get to sleep, with this enormous smile on his face.

Everybody knows it: Cato loves to win. He loves to be reminded that Clove wants him more than the unflappable Surplus who is apparently flappable after all, because he loves to win.

And, as usual when celebrating a win, the universe is quick to get even.


	14. Act 3, Scene 6

Clove was never much for goodbyes.

Peeta is awake by the time she comes downstairs. It's warm, too warm, and he's out in the garden, dreaming, sat on the top of their reconstructed cornucopia, with his legs dangling over the mouth. It reminds her of a dream she had, but there are no fires.

The sun hasn't risen fully yet. She's pulling one of Cato's button-downs further over her thighs, and when she looks up the sun blinds her, lazy and yellow and broken. It's bittersweet, because today is new and she isn't sure if she's ready to forget the previous evening. Her skin still smells like Cato, she wears it like a tattoo.

From the ground, she calls up.

"How's there weather up there?" She calls up, her voice calmer than she expected. There are reasons to be nervous, but the sun is rising on them, she's had time to rest, to have her nerves look silly when Cato was looking at her like that.

Peeta squints back at her, smiling. He lifts something out of his lap, that Clove recognizes as a book. One from the bookcase in the parlor. "Good for reading," He answers her.

"That depends on what you're reading." It's been a while since Clove has read a good book. Mostly because the drama and the tales she's surrounded by are true: Cato is her real swashbuckling hero and she his femme fatale. Or, at least, she thinks that for now, and hopes that doesn't change when this thing is over.

And Peeta? She isn't sure where he fits in. Clove isn't exactly in need of rescuing, or at risk of dying or being born. For the moment, she doesn't really need either of them, she's as invincible as the two of them could hope to be, no smirking or shoulder-shrugs attached.

Peeta places the book besides him and starts to swing his legs, looking free, and why shouldn't he be? Who is Clove to own him, to keep him here to sing and guide the way like some canary? After being kept here by the Capitol, in this gilded cage, she wouldn't dare wish it on anybody. Least of all such an endless boy, the one with the words and the answers and the bread, too.

"Apollo stood on the high cliff." Peeta says, with this strange meter giving a waltz to his tone. Clove freezes, ready to listen. "'_Come to the edge',_ he said." She steps forward, not understanding. "'_We can't_,' they said. _'It's too high_'. '_Come to the edge_', Apollo said."

A few mockingjays whistle. They want to listen to Peeta's story, too.

"'_We can't'_, they said, _'We'll fall'_." He pauses for a second and looks at her, as if debating something, before continuing. "'_Come to the edge_', Apollo said. They came, he pushed them." The birds are silent in intrigue.

Peeta grins at her. "And they flew."

The words don't sink in, fully, but they strike Clove as firstly beautiful and lastly so old, too proverbial and metaphorical to actually come from the mouth of a boy so young, and so syhetlered. What would they have them learn in 12? Certainly, it's different here. Cato can't play the piano all that well, he can't quote her books or proverbs and he can't give her words that shake situations into clarity.

That's not his fault, though. She never asked.

"That was beautiful." Clove says, after a while. If her heart could speak, maybe Peeta would understand how she felt, but instead she's baffled by having to communicate with words. The boy slides off of the side and lands, book-under-arm, in a slight crouch. He walks it off, coming to close the distance between them. The dark cape of his shadow strides, rising to meet him.

"Yeah, well." The boy stretches. "I didn't write it."

Clove feels herself sag, feeling obviously crestfallen. Still, she knows there's only one man to ask if she wants to world, and then the moon on a string. Cato might not be plenty smart of plenty eloquent, but he's generous, he cares.

"Oh," she says, quietly. "It's a quote." Then, she smiles and looks over her shoulder, at the now more slightly awake sun. this summer is promising to be warm, but there is no word of guidance on anything else. Things have been too good, too recently. The universe is at odds with itself on how to get them all back. "You should write it down."

Peeta hands her the book, the one from the parlor. "Somebody beat me to it."

She flicks to the bookmarked page and reads the verse, credited only with the fact that it comes from Peeta's District. It's funny; when they show 12 in broadcasts it looks so destitute and lifeless, and to have such a flower as Peeta, or any of these beauties push though the rubble there is unexpected at best. Clove tries to remember what little she saw of it on their victory saw, but every image if 12 also has Cato in the picture and for some reason the two seem ton contradict eachother. The two don't like to share her attention.

She flicks her eyes up to Peeta and smiles. "Maybe when you get back, you can show me some others."

Peeta nods like he's got it all figured out and his voice shimmers, like a master law, amongst the undergrowth and across the expanse of green, only to be projected back at him. The wildlife, already stirred by him, freeze and stare as if recognizing an old friend, and seeing where time has been kind to him. "If you'd like." He says, ambiguously.

Clove really wants to throw her arms around him, in a careless embrace and know the feel of his skin and cotton shirt beneath her arms, but that's not how it works, and Peeta might no even want her in that way. If he did, he's have Cato to compete with, and he'll have to work damn hard to convince her away from her husband, if the previous night is anything to go on. There are marks on her hips and neck that are turning ugly and purple with hours passed.

"Make it back." She orders him, in her darkest voice, because somebody needs to say it and that isn't going to be Peeta, too peaceful, so sure of himself, too sure that it has to topple and crush him. The Surplus smiles, this genuine, golden grin and shakes his head. The pink of his tongue darts of out to wet his lips. Clove raises a finger. "Make it back or I swear I'll kill you." She jokes, or tries to, but her voice isn't nearly soft enough.

Peeta laughs. "If I don't make it back, you're going to have to compete with a few others to kill me first." The joke is told too darkly, it's too soon, and Clove pauses in the grass. Peeta pauses besides her. He coughs. "I left you some cheese buns, just in case."

"Thankyou." She answers, too quickly. "But you'll come back."

Peeta looks down, and then up. "I'll come back."

Eyes on him, she lifts her arms and wraps them around herself, pretending to hug Peeta. She sways a little, holding fast and tight. For a second, he stares at her, and then understanding dawns, and he lifts his own arms, and does the same.

It's the first time they have hugged, and neither of them are touching.

Not long after, he leaves her. He leaves the piano, with the lid open, fingerprints scattered along the keys in memories. Breakfast ready. A jug of ice water on the parlor table.

Clove stares at the water for about an hour before she actually drinks some. There's no crime in her passion this time, she recognizes what has once been and on her second glass, reflection leaves it tasting smoother and hydrated her, both physically and emotionally. She finishes it off, and thinks that she can survive without Peeta, that she'll hardly notice his absence. It's on that thought that she remembers the Galbanna lillies, the ones she moved that are sitting right in front of her. The exact colour of Peeta's eyes and suddenly the emptiness in the house is physically painful. It's unbearable.  
Clove needs a way to fill the noise, so she sits at the piano, and presses a key, trying to find where she once left off. The strength of it surprises her, and the sound sinks under her skin and makes itself a home in her tissues, whirls around the chambers and the valves like some awful kind of sentiment.

The last piece she played is still on the stand, open at the page. The notes look complicated, in this whir of ties and dotted crotchets and hemiolas, and Clove wonders how she ever managed to play it so effortlessly.

Her right hand is bold, and picks up a bit o the melody, all minor, and dark. The, of course, her eyes start scanning the bass clef and her left joins in, too, working through the first four bars with great difficulty, and then speeding through all molto allegro, just as the paper tells her. However, as the piece comes back to her, so do the memories of that day, when she stopped altogether.

With each note is another piece in the puzzle. Cato sitting in the parlor, dressed in black, mourning, and for what, why was he mourning? Death sat next to him and smelt of roses, eating chocolates and watching with great intent. Clove struggled through the piece,m she tried to forget the options, of handing this mass of cells and nothingness over to death, or continuing until the house was noisy with something over than the piano.

The piece was hard, and then when she had looked up, before making the decision, it struck her. What she was playing, this drab little winding waltz, called 'pleading child'. It scared her so much that she dropped the lid of the piano and took off, had to get far away from those notes, the ones belonging to 'pleading child'.

Death, still eating chocolates, had laughed at her, so she did the only thing she could think to so.

As Clove finishes the piece, at long last, she feels she's made the right choice. Her life here is comfortable, even her marriage, which is bipolar at best best of times, seems more settled. And, even when it isn't, there's Peeta, things angel in the dark that fights with his eyes and not his fists. All of a sudden, she feels a little more prepared, she can finish 'pleading child' without being afraid, she knows that if they just make it through the summer, everything will be okay.

Deep in though, Cato's voice from across the room scared her into damn near tears.

"Late worm catches the early bird, eh, beautiful?" Seeing her flinch a mile, Cato laughs, and leans against the doorframe, for a second. For once, he looks rested, his head of wheaty blonde so messy that strands flit in front of his eyes. It makes him look younger. That's how Clove remembers him, at least, the boy from training, that started the day so polished and ended it looking like he's already won the Games, and nearly died in the process.

"It's good to see you play again." He says, softly. When he crosses the room, still wearing nothing, Clove feels confused as to where all of the red streaks on his back and neck came form. It looks as if somebody has tried to make a bloody tally chart, and she's about to ask when she remembers, and feels almost proud.

He finishes the drink in moderate silence and they both carefully skirt around the Games without mentioning it. The Reaping is tomorrow, and Cato is haunted by that warning: "_It's due any day now, and when it hits, it hits __**hard**__."_ and then, _"You're going to wonder how you lived so large and left so little for the rest of us." _

He thinks about it and then he can't bear to look at Clove, sat in front of her piano, that beloved thing, in one of his shirts, looking happy for the first time in a long time. He doesn't want the Games to begin, he want to leave them behind. It isn't fair that they have gone through all of this, only that Cato might not even see his child grow up.

The thought winds him so badly that he has to get up and leave the house, and Clove's eyes, and her vision, before he can breathe again. His hand feels want to be heavy with a sword.

He leaves Clove in the parlor, with a single thought. She folds over the page and looks to start a new piece, when she notices the title. 'Perfectly contented'.

It's faster, and in a bright, bouncy, major key. Just to play it makes her smile, it radiates utter joy, and the melody has the odd familiarity. She's sure she knows it, even if it sounds imply, missing something. When the piece is finishes, she realizes it. 'Pleading Child' and 'Perfectly Contented' are of the same.

It's the second half of the same song.

Elsewhere, of course, there are no songs or halves or even poems.

It's dark on the train and there are half-remembered and only-just-recognizes faces of home, but grimmer, battered, beaten and cold. Peeta has a few colourful bruises, but most of them are born of accidents and he's by far one of the best off. The seats feel less hard, less like that of a cell and maybe, even though he wouldn't admit it, Peeta is almost sad to go.

Home means starving, and shouting, and the pitying looks from every single coal miner when they see his embedded time, thinking and saying '_you poor thing, oh you poor wretch, how sad must your life be that you're a Surplus'_ when really it's not like that at all. Peeta despises it, because he had been so comfortable in his misery at home, it's brave to try and be happy.

The buildings pass, becoming less and less grand as they move away from District 2, that Peeta was sure he would hate, away from the people he knows he should hate, but cannot, because for each inch he hates them he pities and loves and admires miles. Is that betrayal? He doesn't think so, because they were not Katniss' foe or enemy, none of them were. It's the Capitol that makes the Games, and she had been caught in the crossfire of those two hopeless Careers, desperate to win. He feels free of mourning her.

Across from him is a dark-haired giant of a Surplus, with the side of his face all crusty in scabs and cuts. He has his arm around a small girl with two blonde braids reaching down to her shoulders. They used to be longer. Her face is black and blue with bruises, and she cannot seem to stop crying. Immediately, Peeta stops feeling happy and brave, and starts to feel guilty. He got off easy with Clove, who listens, who's kind.

These have not been so lucky.

"It's okay now, Prim." The tall surplus eases her, calms her down. "Nobody's gonna hurt you. You're far away from him." But the girl shakes her head and gasps in for a breath.

"I'll have to come back," She says, in a miniscule, nondescript voice. "I'll have to face him again." And it breaks her down into louder sobs. The entire carriage says nothing, most polite enough to try and remain invisible, eyes downcast, having been indoctrinated by the stricter masters of their households. Peeta knows his complacency is dangerous, but he's powerless and unwilling to change the way Clove would have him governed.

Noticing Peeta's eyes, the dark-haired Surplus glares at Peeta, where once they were friends. "Not everybody got off so light, Peeta."

He feels this tightening in his chest. "I know," Peeta says, softly. "I know that, Gale." Prim looks up at him, and sniffs. She tries to smile at him, but looks weak. None say anything about the dark bruises on the insides of her wrist, or the way she quivers when Gale even suggests touching her.

She leans forward and addresses the blonde boy. "Thank you," she says, pathetically. "For the bread you gave us. I was scared we'd starve, since Katniss is gone."

Even the mention of that name, the girl on Fire, and this mourning falls over the passengers. Gale drops his face, as if uttering a silent prayer. He's good enough to look after Prim and her mother, he's better than Peeta could hope to be but different, too, he mocks what people like Clove would sob over, he's bad with his words.

Gale clears his throat. "I hope they show the Capitol up, just like last year." The guard at the end of the train straightens, but says nothing. Gale, the instigator, notices the clear discomfort his words are causing and decides to see how deep the rabbit hole goes. "I hope somebody from twelve wins. And without killing anybody, to show them that they don't own us." his voice is louder, and It stirs the guard to call over.

"Simmer down."

"We could boycott the Games. Y'know. If we got enough people." He's nearly shouting now, and Prim looks terrified. It's enough that the guard has moved across the train and has a rifle slung over his shoulder. Peeta looks at the man, no more than thirty, and obviously new at Peacekeeping.

"I said quiet!" He raises his hand as a warning to Gale, who is obviously much bigger, and much smart, and would have everybody in the room on his side if could move Peeta to speak.

"You want quiet, you should have taken the next train." He smirks, unafraid, and looks the man over. "That's a nice gun." The Peacekeeper has had enough and strikes the Surplus with enough force that Gale spits blood.

"You can't talk to me like that." He says, exasperated. "I'm a Peacekeeper. I could buy you if I wanted to." Peeta scans over Gale's face, and recognizes trouble there. He hasn't been the same since Katniss passed, he's broken. They found him, after a four-day absence, wandering through the thicket, dazed and out of his mind. He wouldn't speak, he wouldn't do anything but tie knots in this same piece of rope again and again.

"Oh, Really?" Gale smirks. "I thought that Peacekeepers weren't paid enough to afford a Surplus." It sends the guard into a fit of rage and he's about to grab Gale and do some further damage to the collection of scabs on the side of the boy's face when Peeta steps between them with words. He enters the fray as calmly as he can, in the same way a whisper tears through a crowd.

"Peace." he holds up his hands to the Peacekeeper as if trying to calm some furious wild beat. It can't be too different. At least he might stand a chance between the two of them, which differs from the situation he's been in for a while. Not many people could boast even having a shot at beating Cato. His strength is immense and he's practiced, too. At least, here, Peeta knows they both will be a little more rational. He looks at Gale, who glares at him. "Peace, please."

The Peacekeeper backs off a little, but is still thoroughly disgruntled.

"He's not worth it," Peeta assures him, and then things calm a little. The train weaves in and out of darkness. Everybody who was previously holding their breath relaxes, for the moment, never taking their eyes off the Peacekeeper's gun. They're always known for being a little too trigger-happy and nobody ever seems to bat an eye if it's a trainload of Surpluses, as the Capitol calls the, useless, cold-footed swine.

It isn't until much later, when Peeta is laying on the bedroom floor between his brothers, that he even thinks about the Games properly. At the same time, in the same situation, Cato lays on his side, in the darkness, scared for what the next sunrise will bring. There's no kissing tonight, Clove is tired and instead Cato tried to memorize her face, and her smell. The games are going to get him in some way, he knows that, the Heavensbee woman has practically sworn it to him. Did she include Peeta?

She couldn't possibly mean Clove. They wouldn't do that his girl, not like this.

Cato thinks about dying. He should have, y all rights. He should have let Clove run one of her knives under his chin and split the artery and sing him to sleep. Because then that little stunt with threatening suicide has done nobody many favours. If they don't manage to pull Cato into the Games somehow, they'll get Clove.

Eventually, one of them will die, and then, only then, will they have their victor. One winner, and the other twenty-three dead.

He stays awake until sunlight is threatening to break the darkness. Sleepless, he says a silent prayer to a God that he doesn't believe in.

but nobody's listening.


	15. Act 4, Scene 1

_Hello? Hello? Calling the boy of District 2 to the front, over the crowds, dear sir, you have won. May I congratulate you first, dear sir? Oh, what an honor._

You have won.

Cato stands at side-stage, in the audience of Victors. He remains as the youngest, and across, to the other side, are the women. He can just about see a flash of rouge, and he thinks it's Clove, he thinks of her lipstick. The pallor of her face is indistinguishable in the chaos of people, the winners from District 2.

Most of them are old, or older. Cato has seen a few of them before, slipping through the town like ghosts, on park benches like old men, but with bald spots that glisten like the gold of a halo.

_What worse can this be to the perils you have seen? Standing there shaking in your skin, dear sir, wearing a necklace beaded of sweat and shame, staring at the hungry ones in the audience below, the volunteers. What have you to fear, prince of a thousand enemies?_

You have already won.

Tottering along, a Capitol woman manages to putter over to the microphone, her hair done up in gold and her skin a ghostly white. It takes them all a minute to fathom if she actually exists, or if she merely haunts this consciousness. The volunteers from below hush, having seen their prey, waiting for the right moment to tear into chaos again. Each one of their eyes passes over the stand of Victors, considering them, but flit quickly to another, seeking worthier prey.

"Welcome, Welcome." Her voice is so strange and affected. It squeaks and could turn the dead from their graves. Her eyes are the strangest pale blue, almost all white save for the tiny pinprick of darker blue pupil. She lifts a hand, all clawed with nails. "Welcome, volunteers and victors, to the seventy-fifth annual Hunger Games!"

Off in the private boxes, more Capitol citizens have come to consider. Mostly sponsors, this mix of awful pinks and greens, making Cato wonder if his eyes have shattered to kaleidoscopes, or if that's just how they seem, from the distance. He looks because he can, he knows that if he's mentoring, he'll have to beg money from these tightfisted demons.

What had they given him that hadn't already cost him his humanity? He wonders now if a sword was worth all of it, or if he had ever really been human to begin with.

Morgue to love. He manages to spy Clove from across the distance, and she smiles, faintly. Cato has never once been kind, or compassionate or even that articulate, but all she has to do is look at him like that, and he wishes. Whatever the Games tried to take from him, she re-affirms, she keeps steady and untouchable. How sweet she had looked, beaten, battered and bloody. Finally fit for him.  
Cato is so removed from it all, staring at her long after she has looked away that he manages to screen out the Capitol message to white noise. The screen flickers in the corner of his eyes, and he can see images moving in the reflection of Clove's black-green pupils. Those are just words, and he could have submitted to the propaganda years ago. Time is slipping away from him, and her, and all of them, and Cato is no longer in the habit of denying himself wanted.

Everybody knew it: Cato loves to win.

_Hello! Hello! Calling the boy of District 2 to the front, over the crowds, dear sir, you have won. May I congratulate you first, dear sir? Oh, what an honor._

You have won.

The Capitol ghost at the microphone begins to speak again, in a strange musical slur that has the ends of her words crashing into one another.

"The time has come to select one courageous-" Everybody carefully doesn't interrupt her on that one. Only the ones at side-stage know that it isn't courage that proves a victor, but something darker, stronger than love and sicker than jealousy, that keeps them all sleepless. "-young man and woman for the honour of representing District 2 in Panem's third Quarter Quell."

(Cato remembers Clove stopping by his door in the Capitol a few days after they had won. She had slept none, not even in the arena, and Cato didn't know what to say.

"It's normal to feel empathy for them." He had said, because that was what everybody had said to him and it seemed like it would help. Of course, Cato has never been the one with the words and he prefers swords, he prefers Clove silent, up against the wall with a knife to his throat and her spit in his eye.

At this point, they had not fucked since the train. She could barely touch him, and then all of a sudden she stepped forward.

"Is it normal to hear them scream?" Her voice caught a little. Her hands were trembling. "In the shower, at the table. In bed."

Cato wanted out of the conversation, and gave another weak platitude. "It's just a trick."

Frozen, Clove blinked away something, perhaps a noise, an imagining of that girl from eleven, the tiny one that had been so helpless. It took her a moment, but she spoke. "Do you want to sleep with me?"

It sure took Cato by surprise. He said nothing. Clove sucked in a breath.

"That way when I wake up in a cold sweat, you can tell me it's just a trick." )

Cato expects her to go for the fishbowl of names right away, with the usual, girls first, but instead she pauses, and throws a look up to the private boxes, to where Cato can just about make out a warning in a red dress. The woman nods to the Capitol escort, and he knows all too soon that the threat wasn't empty. The storm has arrived, and everything is loose, free to fly off and be broken. He straightens his jacket, which he didn't want to wear anyway, but Clove had played stylist.

Instead, they all know what's coming a second to late. Heavensbee gives a nod, and it's all over.

"The conditions of this years Quell have been-" The Escort considers her words. "-modified somewhat, in light of it being Panem's third Quarter Quell." The hush falls over the starved youths that have come to volunteer, that have climbed to the dogpile only to get ignored. Nobody is getting handed scraps this year.

Suddenly distressed, Clove's face goes white and she stares Cato down desperately, unable to look away, too afraid, too frozen in the horror of the moment. One of her hands flies up to curl around her stomach in instinct, and the sight in like seeing the barrel of a gun. Physical shock renders Cato unable to remember which side of it he belongs to. She mouths something to him, maybe 'colourful', maybe even 'I love you', but there's no way to tell. It's just a trick, he thinks, but he's already sweating and he can a;ready hear the sounds of the helpless at the cornucopia, of the youngest screaming in their last breaths for somebody, anybody.

It's just a trick. The phantom speaks again.

"This year, the tributes from each District will be Victors from previous Hunger games, save for that of the female tribute from eight, nine, and both tributes from Twelve." She smiles, trying to remain bubbly and picture-ready. "In those instance, reaping will occur as standard. Good luck,"

The two pools of victors look at their competition. But Cato stares at Clove. And Clove stares at Cato. She could not, for the life of him, raise a hand. She would kill herself first, If that were the case, because she could do no greater favour that sunder the hand that remains as his enemy. Would he cover her with flowers? Would he forget her, all too soon, and trade the memory for Capitol wines, and whores, and parties? Suddenly, she becomes angry, the favour seems so small.

"And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour."

She putters up the the fishbowl on her left, takes off the glove and reaches a dainty hand in. She swirls about the papers, as if somehow having influence on the outcome. You can see it, the group response of the female victors. Some are still frozen in initial shock, but others are angry. Clove is passive. She looks world-weary, all things considered, and they all know the Capitol wouldn't have the gall to pull her name out whilst she's still pregnant, and still living up to her 'star-crossed lover' image.

_What worse can this be to the perils you have seen? Standing there shaking in your skin, dear sir, wearing a necklace beaded of sweat and shame, staring at the hungry ones in the audience below, the volunteers. What have you to fear, prince of a thousand enemies?_

You have already won. 

It's only now that Clove looks away, off to her side, at the others who are perfectly good contenders. It's almost as if she mourns them. They both know it's too late. The Capitol sponsors from their boxes cheer, and the hungry, feral volunteers offer daggers in their eyes.

She selects a slip and holds it up, proudly, before heading back to the microphone,, waving her dainty little wrist like she brings good news. They hear the clasp on the paper fumble, and then it seems that each one of them is alone with the Escort, as if the next few words and personal, and thread the beat for every punch and slash.

"Delysia Kinneas." The silence falls on all of them. It takes a few minute for the victor to grasp that her name has been chosen, and then the crowds part to let her through. She passes Clove, who has given up on looking at anybody, and instead gazes at the floor, one hand scrunched in the fabric of her dress. The tribute wanders up the side side of the escort, and looks around with wild disbelief.

Delysia won the fifty-seventh Games at eighteen, and she looks much older than thirty-three, unnaturally thin to keep up with Capitol fashions, her face stretched from surgeries and swollen from a manner of barbiturates. She's small, and looks harmless enough. Cato can't, for the life remember what her talent was, what her weapon was or how she won. It must have been a pretty boring games, because Cato was barely scraping one, and nobody spoke about them.

She doesn't look about to cry. Expressionless, but that's probably due to the work done on her face.

The escort claps like an amused seal, and then putters over to the other selection of names.

It's less then thirty seconds before they all hear it.

"Cato Almasy."

_Hello? Hello? Calling the boy of District 2 to the front, over the crowds, dear sir, you have won. May I congratulate you first, dear sir? Oh, what an honor._

You have won.

It doesn't shock him at all. Not after the warning. But it takes a moment for his physical being to catch up with his mental state. His body just freezes up and shuts down, keeping him tense and motionless, staring straight ahead, elbows bent a little. The names tears through the men around him, to the hungry volunteers that want to tear the skin right off of his back, and the the women, who all turn, trying to find Clove, to offer her some kind of consolation.

Cato holds his breath. His mouth is open slightly, and he can't for the life of him shut it. Oh, Christ, crucified Christ, he has won and now he mas to move, towards the expressionless Delysia Kinneas and the Escort, away from the safety of his position.

He realizes that he isn't breathing and manages to pull some oxygen from the air around him, still not moving. There are whispers starting up again, and he feels somebody push him forward. He stumbles a few steps and freezes again. Everything is slow, and distorted and underwater. He can't hear what the Escort is saying, just these guttural murmurs as she waves him towards her. The sounds confuse his memories of her ghostly form, they make her grotesque.

His ears pop eventually, and then the sound hits him.

"Cato!" He spins to his left, trying to place the sound, and then he sees her. Cato can't feign surprise, he's not an actor and neither is Clove She has forced her way to the front, and stands, utterly breathless, her hands on the shoulders of the two victors besides her, needing support or she will crumble into pieces. All of that hurt on her face, all of that horror and disbelief and agony: it's real. It's real and she's bleeding it out onto the stage, for the rest of them to see. She tries to go further, but a few Peacekeepers stand in her way.

"Please-" She gasps, struggling. "Please, let me through-" None shall pass, and there's no way down. Cato is still frozen, not moving, hardly breathing, staring at her with his head cocked like Clove is somebody-who-knew-somebody, like she's a stranger.

They're all staring at her as she breaks down and dissolves into white-hot rage. Her voice shatters into hoarseness.

"You let me through!" She caterwauls. "Cato!"

His own voice sounds rusty and distant. Emotionless, by comparison. "Clove-..." They know it all by heart, why are they staying in one place? Mutters of dissent stir the Peacekeepers away, and Clove damn near drops there. She's wrestling with herself not to cry, damn it, she won't let Cato win and make her look weak. She should have worn black, Cato thinks, she should have known this would happen, and have already moved on, mourned him and forgotten. Instead, they're stuck here, staring at eachother. "Don't-" he says, sharply, but Clove ignores him.

She manages to stagger over, head held high, until the last minute when something breaks ans this strange, weak little noise warbles out of her throat, like a suppressed sob, but sharper, with intent and blame and motive. She drops to her knees in front of Cato, and he kneels with her, finally able to move, if only to comfort her. The girl shakes violently, too violent, and by the time Cato gets a look at her, her face is destroyed by tears, all of that makeup in black swipes under her eyes. She looks so young, too young, and damn him if he doesn't want to hide her away from this world, away from himself, and all things cruel.

Clove reaches up blindly and takes his face, staring at it, trying to memorise everything there in case this is their last moment together. Of course, it isn't, but still, she stares, her eyes working furiously, and then she turns out to the side, and to those at the microphone.

"I want to volunteer." She manages, pained. "I want to volunteer in place of Delysia!" The tribute perks up at that, but her face sets to stone again when the Escort shakes her head, delighted, like this is some kind of entertainment, all of this suffering. Cato never looks away from Clove, he runs a hand down her shoulder and looks at a few marks, covered with makeup. He did that. He wants to do it again, and again, until he's dead.

The Escort squeaks. "I'm afraid that's not possible, given your condition."

The girl flares up. "Damn my condition!" She shrieks, and raises a nasty finger. "I volunteer as tribute! Take me!"

It's then that the Capitol have had enough for one sitting and the Peacekeeprs come over, rifles over their shoulders. One of them picks Clove up by her underarms and heaves her to standing. Cato stands with her, holding the side of her face with his palm.

"It's just a trick." He promises her, whispering. "It's gonna be fine, it's just a trick."

Clove's face turns ugly and she slaps Cato, as hard as she can, with her nails so that he's left with three jagged lines running down the side of his cheek. The Peacekeepers take her by the arms them, even though she fights them, this tiny, insignificant woman. "Don't you leave me!" She hisses again, and then breaks, folding from anger into hysteria.

"I won't-" He says to her, carelessly.

"You win," she cries out, tugged back a little. Cato has forgotten those watching from their boxes, he's forgotten about the volunteers and the victors and the Escort. To him, it's just the two of them, until he dies, until some hapless soul would take him. He nods. "You win it for me, okay? For me and for us."

Still in shock, he steps forward and they let her up enough so that she can put her arms around him. There's no kissing, that's too personal o share up here, with all of these people, that wouldn't be fair. She stands on her tiptoes and Cato arches his back to reach and he hears every single sob that tears through her body, amplified a thousand times.

"I don't want you to die," She weeps. "I don't want you to die, Cato."

He holds her tight because he's scared she'll fly away, slip through his fingers like liquid sunshine. "Okay," He says, even though it's not okay, and it will never be okay again. Clove is still weeping.

"You have to live."They start to pull her away, and just as she slips, spinning like Girl on Fire, torn, wrenched from where she should be, too far for Cato to grasp, he hears her speak again. "It's a girl,"  
It's enough and they both know it. Cato is too struck to move. He's guided over to the Escort, where Delysia stares at him in wonder, where the audience is completely silent, humbled into quiet by the fable they have witnessed. He can see the pools of victors, and their reactions. Largely, relief, and some shake their heads, mourning but for who?

The Escort claps again. "May I be the first to say a big congratulations to this years tributes, Delysia, and Cato!"

As standard, the entire audience go up in an enormous round of applause, and Cato feels sick, he wants to purge himself of their food and their wines, and anything to do with those that condone him going into an arena again, leaving Clove when she needs him most, when he needs her, and still they clap. It's not great or wonderful, it's a public execution and Cato finds it in him so breathe, just about.

That's the thing, about tributes and victors, that those watching never understand. These winners and tributes, they aren't mysteries or good guys and bad guys, there are no villains and teams to pick. Katniss Everdeen was not the Girl on Fire, and Cato isn't a hero, an icon, a winner by any stretch of the imagination.

He's just a boy. And he wants to go home.

The ceremony is almost over. How much longer can he bear?

"Happy Hunger Games! She choruses again, so false and affected. "And my the odds be _ever_ in your favour!" But Cato isn't playing the numbers, or the odds. He's playing twenty-three tributes.

It's the last thing he can clearly visualize, before a blur of cheers, and crowds outside the doors. Everything looks tinted with a funhouse mirror, grotesque and terrifying, and he wants to wake up next to Clove in a cold sweat, out of breath and afraid. He wants her to scrawl her name across his chest with the tip of her finger and say 'it's just a trick'.

But in his head, she writes Peeta's name with her finger, and she has nothing to say to Cato. Why should she?

Later, much later, when it's dark and the festivities have begun, he feels eyes on him, and turns away from the train window. His mentor is dressed in a dark blue nightgown, satin from 8, but not bought after a fight. She moves across the carriage and sits down besides him, her eyes shining dangerously but her cheeks dry enough that he'll survive.

"Don't cry," Cato says. She covers her mouth and holds back the sob choking her.

"I'm sorry." her words are strangled. "I'll try." It's not long before she's tucked up against him, still trembling, and Cato is tousling her hair absent-mindedly with his free hand as the countryside rolls by, free, untamed. He's jealousy, but the feeling is not new, he knows how to ignore it. In the silence, Clove sighs. "You should watch the reapings."

It's too late, it's too hard to argue with her. In the darkness, they sit through replays, remembering past Games, remembering the tributes from each District, slaughter'd youth, the ones they had personally slain. They say nothing at all as the District 2 reapings are edited, leaving Cato looking hard, and unfeeling, unable to move for far too long. He would thank whoever made it for allowing him to retain some superhuman inhumanities. By the time they reach twelve, and the girl is chosen, a fourteen-year-old, Clove has brightened.

She lays her head on Cato's shoulder and whispers. "She's young. And most of them are old, and out-of-practice." Tenderly, she pats her stomach. "You could win, Cato. You're as strong as ever. You're good with your sword."

He shrugs. He doesn't want to talk it over.

Clove senses this, and changes topic. "Twelve won the last Quarter Quell. The victor is dead, but it probably wouldn't hurt to watch the tape."

He nods his head. "I saw it on television, once. A re-run. The kid that used the force-field." She nods. "What was his name?"

They have all but forgotten about the reaping as they ponder over it. "It wasn't that Garamonde, was it?" Than, she shakes her head. "No, that was the first Quell."

Cato snaps his fingers. "It was-" He bites his lip in concentration. "Jesus, his name was-" The television answers for him.  
_  
"Peeta Mellark." _


	16. Act 4, Scene 2

The familiar slash of a woodcutter's swing is what causes Clove to fold in half.

She looks over the barrier, and at the rails beneath, They run in the opposite direction, away, too fast, and she cannot focus her eyes from confusion and fear and something else, a less known, recognisable horror that seems intent on choking her. If she had ever been breathing, the last few hours have made her lips blue from holding her breath.

It makes her think of an old urban legend that Peeta had told her about, a few weeks ago. It had said that a man had discovered his orgasm was twice as good when he held his breath, and this genius has gone into a lake one day, and had gotten carried away holding his breath that he drowned, and thus the secret got out. Clove smiles to think about it. But then she thinks about Peeta and starts to feel sick, and shaky, and her hands fix themselves tightly around the fence in front of her. It's as if all the oxygen has left the air, and that she'll fly up into the ionosphere at any minute.

Like Cato, he just froze up. She had seen it on his face, this utter surprise, something that toppled his usual calm. His face was fixed all open-mouthed and blank, trying so hard to register the moment, and to hide how he felt, too. Clove knows that Peeta isn't all that much like Cato, he's much more emotional, and even in the audience, with all eyes gazing on him, tears were welling fresh in his eyes and his lips were trembling like brittle, lifeless leaves.

Nobody but the mockingjays dared to take his place. The boy of sixteen, the shock of lemon in the crowd like a light left on a by an angel, all alone. It's different in 12. There was nobody cheering, or jealous, but mournful. None of the boys could look at him, the smallest out of most, this helpless little lamb, a red silk collar around his throat as they lead him up the slaughterhouse, the stage.

By the time he's stood at the side of his Escort, Effie, it sinks in for all of those watching. His wrist is ugly with embedded time, his face is still bruised and from the white cotton shirt, it's a badge of shame. A Surplus, already unwanted. The odds aren't in his favour, they never were. It's when Peeta looks over the faces of home that he starts to cry, and not a dramatic, emotional pathetic little weep, but soundlessly.

Clove couldn't believe what she was watching. Because Peeta was trembling just as hard as he was crying and the tears were thick and ruddy and rouge: they were blood. Peeta's cobalt oceanic blues, usually so calm and masterful, were cloud because he was weeping blood from them. He turned to the side and started to vomit, and the cameras flicked away, unable to screen the sound. They made it out to be disgusting, this fear, and Clove wished she understood, she wished she wasn't paralysed here by her own uselessness, but she cannot afford to be afraid.

The voiceover, Claudius Templesmith, spoke again, unfeeling, unsympathetic and probably unimpressed by Peeta's display. When the cameras return, he's no more graceful, blue-faced, cold-footed, shaking hands with a taller, older girl.

(Hematadrosis- noun- _(heem-ah-tah-doh-sis)  
_**Hematidrosis** (also called **hematohidrosis**) is a very rare condition in which a human _sweats__blood_. It may occur when a person is suffering extreme levels of stress, for example, facing his or her own death

Peeta already knows that he is going to die.)

Clove's body is hot with shame. She hates the satin she's wearing, and she hates the way they have done her hair, and she hates that she cannot volunteer alongside Cato. Most of all, she hates Peeta, because he has given her so much joy, he has given her a means to survive, and the idea of having it all taken away is quite literally unthinkable.

She might cry, but her body is drained, and she's tired, so tired, world-wearied and searching to get away from the Games, from Peeta's eyes, obscured by his bleeding. She feels herself ache for that boy, actual physical pain that makes her chest feel too tight, it makes her feel the slash of the woodcutter's swing all over again, but nobody is around to see it, so the agony in invalidated.

In a single movement, whilst muttering a shaker hymn, Clove pulls herself up, and swings one foot over to the other side of the barrier. Her nightgown blows wildly in the breeze of the train. They must be going at one-hundred-and-sixty, maybe ore, maybe less. That's good, Clove thinks, that means that she would die quickly if she jumps.

When she jumps.

In the past, she has imagined all the fun Cato would have without her. His pick of any whore, at any time. There would be no threat from the Capitol, no suspicion. He could live alone, he could live anywhere he wanted, and if he didn't like somebody he could tell them to get the hell out and, God's bread, they would, and if he wanted some woman, he'd call her over, and by Christ, she'd come. Clove goes mad thinking about the time Cato would have without her, and it makes her furious.

Why did he save her? Why did he love her, when he could have had everything?

It's another reason to jump, there and now. Clove places her other foot over, to that she's on the outside, hanging into the train by her hands and feet. The satin whips about riotously and her hair is pulled in front of her by the breeze. She feels light, as if she could fly, like maybe if she lets go with her arms, the world will slowly descend into nothingness and all of her worries will dissolve.

Her hands are curled too tightly, and her body won't see reason to budge an inch. She thinks of the best advice she was ever given, Peeta's words.

She tries to visualise it. All of this can be eviscerated, it can all be broken, and disappear_. Hold your Devil by his Spoke, and spin him to the ground._

But her Devil is more than one, and wily, too, fast and clever. Clove is slow, she's afraid, and she needs to be lead. It feels as if Peeta's smile is sat on her shoulder, his whisper crawling into her ear. _I am yours until they come; I'm yours until they get us. _And for a second, she believes it, she turns her head but he's not there, he's already laying shoulder-to-shoulder in a grave somewhere with Girl on Fire, as they mock what Clove mean, with her love that has been made afraid. _Hold your Devil, Clove; hold your Devil by his spoke._

But she cannot grasp.

The tracks are a circuitous blur of wood and iron. The trees besides the tracks whisper disdainfully, she shake their heads at Clove, hanging there, ready to jump, ready to die, ready for Peeta to meet her in the half-darkness of Death under the Hanging Tree, but her body is stubborn, it dreams of life when her love is done.

One of her hands finally loosens, and her whole boy sags, closer to the ground running impossibly fast underneath her. Clove actually squeaks in fear, because she's still unsure. It's not Peeta's eyes that she's seeing as her body drops closer into the maw of death: it's Cato's'. And he's laughing, he's fourteen and standing waist-deep in Silverflow River with Clove's book in his hand, grinning at her, shivering and saying _'How about a kiss, Clover? How about a kiss?_'. Then he's sixteen and there's blood all over his face when he beats her in training and pins her, up against the floor, whispering _'How about a kiss, Clover? How about a kiss?'_.

She wonders if it would be worth saying sorry, giving him that kiss he craved for so long. But it would be worse than leaving wordlessly, with Cato a kiss turns into a rough, unceremonious fuck, that's how he works, and she can't say no, she could never refuse, not even now, hanging by three limbs to her death.

Brave, she closes her eyes, and breathes deeply. She will never be ready to die, but she won't watch Cato in those Games, she will never gaze upon Peeta again if she knows he'll die.

"Oh, God," She sobs, throwing her head up, summoning her strength, and then leaning, easing her body upwards and forwards. She means to end it, and only the boy with the bread will mourn her. Only-

A pair of hands fix around her ribs and tug her sharply up. Clove's eyes snap open. She struggles again the grasp.

"Don't fight me!" Cato's' voice is queer and pinched. He sounds as if he might cry, but Cato doesn't cry, not ever. She supposes that the idea of him going back into the arena has broken him, cracked him open like a ship sinking. He's frighteningly strong and rough as he pries her up, and back onto the end of the train, over the barrier. "Stay still!"

Clove thrashes, starting to sob again. She knows this isn't fair. She knows that, but she fears she's powerless to stop herself. "Get the hell-" In a fluster, she tries to bite Cato, drawing blood from his upper arm, and even though it must be agonising, he doesn't dare let go. "—off of me!" The blood fills her mouth and tastes coppery. She spits it out, furious. "You let me go!"

"I won't." He swears, miserably, and he heaves her again, until her heels are scraping the train floor, safe, for the moment. Clove feels herself shake with rage, that she hasn't even the power to die, and lunges for Cato's face, screaming profanities as she gouges and scratches.

She freezes when she realises that he is, he really is crying, and she doesn't believe it.

Slowly, as she comes to understand, he finds leave to look at her. She's never seen him cry, she's never seen his face look like this and it scares her, she wants to shut her eyes to what they've become, but it's impossible.

"Don't kill Peeta," She begs him, her voice shaking. "Don't kill him, please. Let him live," Cato nods his head, he braves a smile.

"I thought you'd jump." He whispers, pressing his lips to her neck, breathing in the smell of her hair while he still can, while the violets still grow there. Clove laughs, she thinks how stupid she's been and finally, at last, she's breathing again. "I thought you were going to leave me,"

She kisses him on the cheek and swallows, wiping away the remnants of tear on his face. They're okay, they're alive and safe and they will fight their way through this just like the last time. "You know me," her voice is certain now. Her hands are both holding tight to the nape of his neck. She won't let go. She will never let go. "I wouldn't slip away like that. I'd go out kicking and screaming."

Cato laughs, and then chokes, bringing her into his arms so tight that she thinks her chest will collapse. "I hate you so much right now."

The thought makes her manage a small laugh. "The feeling's mutual, darling." They sit in the blustery night air for a few minutes, silent, unable to fathom words because the situation they have found themselves in is too awful to discuss. It's much easier to skirt around the topic with words and with shrugs and all the rest. But they both know somewhere, a boy of sixteen has blood dripping from his eyes, facing death in all certainty.

Why speak they not of comrades that went under?

Too gentle, as if she's some fragile, darling little piece, he lifts her off of the floor and takes her inside, away from the whistling winds, and the thought of leaving it all behind. They both carefully avoid any room with a screen in, ones that ramble about the tributes selected, and opt for the darkness of a single moment in a single bed. There's not much room, but they manage. The train is fitted for purpose, of course, and it's unusual that a tribute is married to their mentor. Even more so that they'd share a bed.

After so long in silence, with so many questions, Cato is scared to speak. He's sick of feeling afraid already, and it's just the first day. Really, he doesn't want to kill anybody, he doesn't want to be part of this anymore.

He heard Peeta say, once, that fate is like an unusual restaurant where waiters come out of nowhere and give you things that you haven't ordered and most of the time you don't want. How apt the metaphor seems now, when Cato had struggled to understand it at the time. He thinks about telling Clove, because she likes metaphors like that, she likes Peeta's clever little stories and poems. She likes Peeta, that's the trouble. He suspects that she loves him, maybe, and to have to watch him die must have driven her out to the back of the train.

Instead, Cato strives for a breezy tone. "So," he begins, nervously.

Clove won't stop fidgeting, she's restless and her brain won't stop. She says, "So." At least that way, she can hope to take her mind off of Peeta, and the carousel of words in her head_: victor-tribute-quell-Peeta-Cato-hematadrosis-boy. _

"A girl."

She springs in to alertness, her face white. It's so easy to forget, in the midst of things, that even if Cato dies, or Peeta lives or neither of them win, she's still going to have a baby. Only, the thought of being alone with her thoughts, with a girl that would be beautiful and pale, with yellow hair like him, it tears her apart. At least if she had Peeta, beautiful Peeta, he'd always know what to say.

"Yes," Before she can think, Clove answers in a daze. "A girl." In the darkness, she can hear Cato's smile, and then she thinks of the reverse argument, having Cato with her, having him use stupid pet names and spending too much money on silly things and caring unashamedly, like he's never done. It's rare, but it happens, when he talks about it, and this side of him, not conceited or callous, or cracked, but new, and life-giving surfaces. She wants to explore it.

"I hope she doesn't look like me," He laughs, this golden noise that has the audacity to be optimistic when everything around him is at its darkest. Clove considers his words, she shrugs.

"Yeah, well." She turns onto her other side, so that she's facing him. There's not nearly enough room, and Cato is half-off the bed anyway. "I hope she does," her words serve the purpose of being difficult, and it makes them both smile.

"This is what you want, right?" He sounds unsure, again, and right away Clove knows she isn't sure, but nods anyway because that seems like the best thing to do.

"Yes," She says slowly, like an echo pedal, repeating what Cato would give to her in the form of words. "Yes, I want this."

"It's just-" And there's the uncertainty, colouring his voice again. Honestly? Clove prefers Cato vulnerable, she thinks he's better looing, and infinitely more charming when he's not sure. Arrogance s what he gives the word, this false generosity and duplicity, and then he rarely shows his caution, and only to Clove. It's how she knows he trusts her, with all of their insults and games. "If I die.." ~

The girl flares up. "Don't you dare." Cato rubs her arm down, and sighs.

"I'm not saying I will," He murmurs. "But there's a chance. And if I do, I won't want you to be on your own." She hates those words, and this conversation, and her own powerlessness. At least before, in the Games, they had eachother, they could trust, above all else, to watch and look for one another. Who will watch for Cato? Who will come running through the clearing and up towards the cornucopia when it's Peeta that's screaming?

"I won't be alone," She says. The words rot, and fall away.

"But I'm not ready to leave you," Clove feels herself become angry.

"I'm your mentor," She says, dully. "I can get you what you need. I can do that." Cato takes her by the arms.

"Don't play stupid, Clove." He hisses to her. "You think that a silver parachute is going to help me if somebody sticks me in the back with a fucking spear?" The physical shock from his hands makes Clove unable to actually think. She can only listen, wordless. "I'm not saying you're useless." He sighs. "Just misguided."

Clove dips her head. She wishes she had Peeta's words in her mouth, she wishes she had Peeta, because he makes her feel safe and calm, and in control even when she's unserviceable. It figures that he's tribute, bait, sword fodder. It's hard, but she reminds herself, he isn't dead yet, he's still breathing still bleeding from his eyes.

"Were you going to jump?" Cato asks her, suddenly, having wanted to ask her all along but finding no effective means without ambushing her. Clove feels her body go tight, like the string in a bow, she feels the slash of a woodcutter's swing again and again, like lashes raining up and down her back.

"Yes," She says, eerily calm. Cato nods, swallowing.

"You were going to leave me?"

Clove bows her head. "Yes," His mouth is dry and he struggles to annunciate when he speaks again.

"Will you try again?"

This time, Clove is loud with her answer, and sure. "No." But that makes no difference.

"I don't believe you." He tugs her hand. "C'mon, Clover." Usually, she'd resist. But tonight she rises from her bed In eagerness, knowing that the nightmares will come, and that they'll be of Peeta, standing on top of the cornucopia, with a noose all pretty around his neck, and Peeta will look at her all doe-eyed and say _'Come to the edge'_.

She follows him into the dining carriage where he rifles through the cupboard and makes her a cup of tea, just like Peeta would, and she sits on the countertop, his arms around her.

"At least you'll have a lot to say to Caesar this year." She jokes, emptily. Cato's head is at an angle, he's lost in his thought and he runs a hand along her stomach, absently.

"Don't hold your breath." She yawns, draining the tea, and smiles to think of an earlier memory.

"Peeta told me a story, once, about a man that drowned. The man said that holding his breath improved an orgasm, but he went into a lake, and got carried away." She laughs, yawning once more, thinking that Peeta had told it much better, all animated and fun. Whenever Clove tells it, the tale sounds morbid and horrible, instead of the jest it is supposed to be. Still, Cato gives a small laugh.

"Guess I was wrong," He remarks. "His stories aren't about goats after all."

Clove sighs. "I'm really tired." Which Cato reacts strangely to. He looks at her, and then around the room a little before settling back into staring into midspace.

"Do you love him?" He asks her. Clove swallows.

"I love you." She says, by way of answer. Cato scoffs at her, all unkind and hard, and he doesn't believe a word of it.

(The only time he has ever been sure she's loved him was when they were lifted from the arena, and they were separated, because Cato was all sorts of bleeding. She screamed and fought and scrapped. He heard her, and he just knew.

_"Knew what?"_

What he was never sure of since.)

"You don't love me." Cato says to her, bitterly, because she doesn't. I mean, if she loves Cato so much, why does she look at the Surplus with those eyes and laugh at his jokes? Cato knows that Peeta is a good guy, and his jokes are funny. But what's not funny is that Clove finds them funny, finds Peeta funny. Nobody's laughing then.

Clove shakes her head. "I never said I didn't hate you." She smiles, sleepily. "But I do love you."

"I'm sorry." He says, all too quickly. Clove rubs her eyes.

"Sorry for what?"

"For me," He mumbles. "For the other girls I had in our bed." It's clear that she wants the conversation over. They never really spoke about Cato's infidelity. It just occurred, like it was happening to somebody else's marriage. She would catch them, or hear them, or Cato's collar would be all rouge with lipstick, and that was fine, she never asked for the moon on a string, or to play happy husband and wife.

The only person that suffered from the adultery was Cato.

"That doesn't matter," Clove assures herself, because she believes it's passed. Cato whimpers the tiniest bit.

"But it does." His voice is pathetic. "I made a fool out of you, Clove, and the way you live."

She sighs once more. "If I was going to get upset by it, don't you think I'm leaving it a little late?" Her head feels heavy and her breathing is deep and she's ready to crawl into a dreamless sleep, where there are no Hunger Games or tributes, where Peeta spins more stories and where Cato stands in Silverflow River, shivering, always grinning to her_. 'How about a kiss, Clover? How about a kiss?'  
_  
Then, she narrows her eyes, and looks sideways, at her cup. "Cato…" She warns him. He makes an elaborate pantomime of innocence.

"You look _tired_, Clove." He grins. "We should get you to bed."

She shoves him back. "What did you put in my tea?"

He shrugs. "Sleep syrup."

"Well, it's not going to work." She snaps. Cato breaks out into a laugh.

"There's enough in there to drop an elephant."

Her face turns sour, but it's too late, she can already feel herself go weak as she succumbs to drowsiness. Cato gathers her limp body up and pulls her off of the counter, padding back towards the darkness, and the single bed. She drops her face against his shoulder, and tried to fight to keep her eyes open.

"I hate you." She mumbles, when he lays her down. Cato sorts out the sheets and covers her, nice and safe, for now.

"I know." He assures her, with a small smile. He's about to pull away, and leave her, all alone in the darkness when Clove feels suddenly scared. She grabs onto his arm, and for the life of her won't let go. He turns, confused, and hears her just about mumble.

"Stay," She manages. And then, as if she needs a reason, her defensiveness comes out. "I might have nightmares."

So Cato waits by her bedside all night, watching over her patiently, keeping his eyes on her face in the changing light, to try and spot warning signs of a horrible dream. None come, and she remains beautiful, at peace, left alone by the cruelties of the world.

No nightmares. It's the only excuse she needs to give.


	17. Act 4, Scene 3

Tick-tock.

Peeta can't remember what silence feels like. He misses the peace, the freedom and pulselessness of it. Now, for every time that the voices stop, and the birds fall silent, he can feel the tick-tock-ticking of the embedded time. It's so he won't forget His Place, and so he realises that the moments that pass are not his to use, but his to serve under the tight fist of the Capitol.

He isn't naked, this time, but the paper gown does little to purchase him dignity. He feels like a fool, and he trembles with fear and anticipation and desire, to say all the things he never got a chance to say, to even the score of things.

Peeta's still a Surplus. Now he's a celebrity, too, and a tribute, and a 'potential victor'. They have all but forgotten that it's impossible to be all of those things: Peeta's only human, he's too young, and he looks around, at women with antiseptic green skin, and men with purple lips for some kind of sympathy or explanation, but none is given. All they can offer is congratulations, thanks to him, because he'll be providing their entertainment. After a while, Peeta gives up, he stares at the ceiling and takes himself away.

He thinks about all of the things he loves. First was Katniss, always Katniss, and in his mid she smiles at him lie she smiled in the forest, unfettered by intervention, pure and imperfect, just as God intended. Born to blossom, bloomed to perish. And he loves another, too, with skin just as pale and a smile just as rare, but free. The last two come together: Peeta loves music, and how easily he can stop playing, stop listening, and not feel anything. Of all the extraneous factors in his life that have come to a collision, it it's perhaps the only thing left he can control, and it comforts him.

The woman with the pink hair runs a hand along Peeta's wrist and taps the face of his embedded time.

"You're a handsome thing, y'know," She drawls to him, her tone bordering on a simper. Peeta wants to say that he has no use for pity, but the blood from his eyes says otherwise. He can see fine, now, but that's only because it's actually hit home, that he's going to die. "If only they let me have a bit of fun with you."

By habit, he feels one of his shoulders go up and down in a shrug. He doesn't care how he looks, really, who has the time back in 12 to worry what colour their hair is? Most don't live to see it grey. Peeta might look defiant, but he winces every ten seconds as other stylists work on his embedded time. They aren't removing it. : Peeta has been told that they'll sell him using his Surplus status, but fixing it up making the cuts neater.

Of course, as stylists, they don't have access to a general anaesthetic, so Peeta remains totally aware of every inch the scalpel-jockey moves. They're good, he'll give the, and they're not messy, but it aches. This time, they remain pretty surface level, poking around at loose wires and making the ugly component update, stylish, fit for a Captiol citizen to gaze at. It's funny, Peeta thinks, at how they react to the natural form, as if his body is now a lightning rod for censorship, a sponge for judgement, and while some might be ashamed, he's almost proud. Yes, he thinks, see your enemy is his purest form and then tell the world that he deserves his fate.

A few streaks of blood run up his arm. They have re-applied some bleaching agents, leaving him looking almost bluish, he's so pale. It's as if they're setting him up to look even weaker and more pathetic, he knows that the Careers will make a meal out of him.

Peeta hasn't watched the other reapings. He doesn't want to. What bothers him to no end is the idea that the other tributes, none that he can name, have seen his, and how pathetic Peeta must looking, trembling and vomiting and sobbing tears of blood. They must recognise it as he has done, an easy target, with one foot already in a funeral suit.

Has Clove seen? She must be here already, with Cato, safe and sound and ready to mentor some vicious new tributes. Either that, or they're both safe at home. The thought makes Peeta a bit easier-going. He likes the idea of Clove sat at her piano, hammering out a beautiful, winding melody while Cato watches, takes cheap shots at her because he's struggling with an original way to tell her he loves her. They'll know he's been reaped, they'll have seen it. Would Clove even care? Sorry to miss him from her midnight, but never asking to which front he gets sent.

"Jesus!" Peeta actually cries out when they nip part what has to be a vessel of some sort, a capillary, and more blood wells up. The stylists fret over it, spraying him down, cleaning him up. It stings, but he'll get over it.

Peeta watches the water cloud over the blood and wash it all away, and he thinks that it's brave to try to be happy, even if he's going to die. He thinks it's the bravest thing he could possibly do, to lay still, and defiant, and let the water wash everything away.

After they seem happy with home his embedded time looks, the three of them start of his face, bleaching out impurities and washing his hair and bringing out dyeing agents that they coat all over his blonde to make it blonder. The peroxide itches, but if he even lifts a hand, they fret some more, and slap him away, jesting at scars that never feel a wound. Maybe Peeta should get a feel for how to deal with the Capitol by talking to them, but what has he to say? Moreover, what have they to say that he would even internalise?

It seems to take days. And by the end of it, he's lying in a damp paper gown, unmoved on cold metal, with a throbbing, but tidy-looking wrist, very pale, ethereal skin and paler blonde. Peeta doesn't know if he looks good, because he has never thought to consider it. His life back in 12 had little to do with pursuing girls, he baked bread and went to school, a very sheltered life, with little time for vanity.

On the far wall, Peeta can see a small metal box, and he leans up, slightly, trying to catch his reflection, as if the virtual image will provide him with a second opinion. That and they've done something to his eyes, they put some kind of drop on his lids and they feel strange. His vision is fine, but he suspects something else. The metal is scratched, and he focuses, squinting, sitting up and feeling his wrist ache again with the weight of half of his body.

A voice snaps him out of his focus.

"Feeling a little vain?" Peeta sits straight up to find the voice of the intruder, and the he sees a dark-skinned man coming around the side of the metal bed his voice is genuine, at least, and his face is calm, almost nothing but accents of gold distinguishing him from a wealthy man back home and a Capitol citizen. To finally look at somebody who isn't distorted or even the least bit freakish immediately puts Peeta at ease.

"I may as well start now," He mumbles, swinging his legs until they dangle. The stranger laughs, and brings over a small mirror, placing it in Peeta's hands.

"I'm Cinna." He says, giving Peeta the courtesy of his eyes. Peeta nods to him, neutral, and then looks into the glass where another stranger stares back. Only, this stranger has pale blonde hair in a chopped fringe. His eyes, they're darker, and brighter. The colour has been altered just the littlest bit. His face is free of visible bruises and blemishes, he looks every part a tribute should, perfect and unspoiled.

His eyes flick back up to Cinna. "And you're Peeta," Struck by his partial fame (however much he condemns the circumstance), Peeta feels himself blush a little, perhaps even ashamed, and hands the mirror back to Cinna. He doesn't even want to look like this, he just wants to go home, and bake. Even now, his olfactory nerves are craving the smell of grain to the point of desperation.

The stylist sits beside him, and clears his throat. "You made quite an entrance, at the reaping." Peeta freezes, and then he closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath.

"You saw that." He says, more to himself, feeling so childish and helpless and stupid. Who'll bet on Peeta when he can't even physically handle a reaping? He knows it; he's the laughing stock of the whole Capitol, and the target of every damn tribute in this arena. Nobody is going to sing Peeta to sleep, when he drops dead, unceremoniously, in a meadow, with only Katniss' memory to sing him to sleep.

"I saw it," Cinna confirms his worst fear. "And I'm sorry," Peeta doesn't want to look at him, or anywhere, he wants to dissolve into nothing, and then be forgotten. He wants to go back to wearing midnight on his shoulders, and telling Clove of his Devil's Spoke. Like most things in life, it's easier said than none, and disappearing isn't an option here. All they want is a good show. That's what they're after. "It's okay to be afraid."

Peeta coughs, his face fixed in bitterness. "No, it's not." He stares down at the component in his wrist, which sparkles and looks nearly glamorous. He can fell each second with this horrible and ever-so-slight pulse that goes around his body. A clockwise man, a surplus, and in front of somebody like Cinna, he feels ashamed. The same stylist with the cold fleck around his eyes, and Peeta's nothing more than cheap, copper wires. "They're laughing at me."

Cinna perks up. "They won't be laughing at the tribute parade." he says, so certain of himself. Peeta wants to be kind, but he's had enough of kindness, it affords no favour to make him safe or happy.  
"So you're here to dress me up." He says, woodenly. Instead of being insulted, it makes Cinna smile.

"You know, that's exactly what Katniss said to me." His eyes grow glazed in the grip of a memory, and Peeta wouldn't dare interrupt a dream of her, his mockingjay, that soars higher and freer than the Capitol could ever do anything about. She sings to them, even now, she'd be beautiful, but what then? Looking too much like she's sleeping when really, she's dead and gone.

Peeta is humbled into quiet, but has to ask. "Were you her stylist?" Cinna nods, his face serious. "What was she like?" It gives the Capitol citizen leave to look something over than distance, but human, God, after all this time at least one of them looks approachable and kind, he isn't about to scorn Peeta for his fears, and for his panic.

"She was aflame." He smiles, faintly. "She was the greatest and wisest person I've ever met." Peeta's throat grows dry. Images come back to him of her in the corridor, walking home, or walking through town, only smiling with Prim, only smiling rarely, but when she did, she was not pretty, or beautiful, but as radiant as passion.

"I'm the best they could do," Peeta jokes. He's self-deprecating, half by nature, and half from listening to his mother too much, and it doesn't go down too well. "You must be pretty upset about getting District 12 again." They take a breath before Cinna speaks again.

"I asked." He says, cryptically. "I saw you at the reaping, and I wanted to work with you."

Peeta feels himself grow uncomfortable. "I'm weak." He manages.

Cinna shakes his head. "You're human." His voice is serious. "You're real, and they'll like you." Peeta shrugs again, and stares up at the unnatural blonde of his fringe. "Did they explain to you, about getting sponsors?" He nods.

"I think I've already shot that horse in the face." He laughs. Cinna laughs, too.

"You won me over." His words are dangerous. Peeta isn't sure he can trust them. Just like he wasn't sure he could trust Clove, but then she spoke to him, she shared words with him and became something else.

The boy squirms, tight. "That's different." He says. "I wasn't trying—" Cinna nods, smiling.

"She wasn't, either." His voice is full of that warmth gain, and he must have loved her something awful, too. She as so unaware, too, she really didn't know what happened when she walked into a room, when she came out in the chariot, ablaze, and only thing anybody could look at.

"It's easier to notice somebody when they're on fire." Peeta jokes.

"Well," Cinna holds up his hands. "I'm not going to douse you in kerosene, don't worry." His fingers start to twitch, as if excited to show something off. Peeta thinks it odd to think of the Capitol as anything but emotionless. They speed these glum heroes, these children up the line to a horrible death very year. How could they feel, if it were not overwhelming guilt? "I have a slightly different flavour this year."

"Oh?" Peeta says. It's something he can't be too bad at, wearing clothes. The idea seems so simple, but he can tell, in the way Cinna speaks, there's so much detail put into it, so many intricacies that Peeta will ignore. In 12, he wears hand-me-downs and scraps sewn together. Nobody there has the means to be fussy.

"Katniss was the mockingjay." He says, quietly. "But you're a canary."

They work tirelessly through the afternoon.

The metaphor, is of course, based on 12 being a coal mining District. Peeta knows, as well as anybody, that miners still use canaries. They lower them, in their cages, to detect if the air is dangerous or not. The bird would sing until the air was too toxic, and then it would fall silent, as a warning. It's usually only a matter of time them, before the bird dies. Peeta thinks of how apt it is. And how relevant and clever.

Of course, that's not the only thing Cinna has done. He knows that they also use gas lamps in the mines, and Peeta's going to be dressed in a suit with yellow accents. The material is heavy, and smells of some kind of chemical, and when Peeta asks, Cinna gets that look all over his face again, the one he would have given Katniss when she twirled, when she became the Girl on Fire.

Cinna strikes a match and places it against Peeta's shoulder. The boy expects to be roasted alive at any second, and feel his skin melting off in saggy,. Boiled clumps, but instead, the fabric doesn't catch light. The flame spreads, and then dies down into this very subtle, but still very visible shimmer, and glow. He looks like he's emitting a very pale light, flickering every so softly like a flame, but angelic, somehow, divine.

So that's Peeta's angle. Innocence. Purity.

He doesn't recognise himself. Peeta spins, staring at his reflection, expecting to see somebody else, somebody weaker and more useless. His sleeves are pulled up at the elbow, to shed light on his embedded time, and there are inflections of white on the outside, in cotton, that reflect his time as a Surplus.

"Are you comfortable?" Cinna asks, right away. For a Capitol citizen, he's unnaturally practical, and helpful. Peeta spins, turning away from the mirror to face the stylist, and now they match, now they're both gold. He nods.

"I'm baffled." He says, honestly. "I mean, it's spectacular." Peeta extends an arm and stares at the stark, tart contrast between the dark carpets compared to the glow he radiates. The chemical smell has been burnt up, and now the clothes reek of flowers. The flowers make him think of Clove, wherever she is, too far away to be told this story. And who'd believe it anyway.

"I hope you don't mind," Cinna says, calmly. "The luminosity, that is."

"I never really dressed up like this before." Peeta laughs. He looks at Cinna and nods. "Thank you. Maybe at this rate somebody will take pity and send me a crust of bread."

The stylist shakes his head, and fixes Peeta's collar, absently. "They're going to remember you tonight." He admires his work, and then nods again, affirming his own brilliance in a single look. Still, the shimmering continues. Peeta feels like a character from a myth, radiating a soft yellow light, with the imprint of wings on his back. Feeling like this, he really could fly away, far away, to the place Katniss is, still signing. "You look nervous."

Peeta laughs, mirthlessly. "I was just thinking." He coughs. "Maybe this will buy me an alliance. After the reaping, the Careers are going to eat me alive."

Cinna shakes his head. "Don't think about that, now. There's time." And then he brushes a hand down Peeta's shoulder and the glow dies completely. Soon enough the darkness catches the whole thing, and it goes back to being just a suit. Cinna sits and gestures Peeta do so, too. "Are you scared?"

"Very."

"Don't be," Cinna smiles. "Tell me about back home. Do you watch the Games?"

The boy tilts his head. "Most years, yes."

"Who was your favourite tribute?"

Peeta laughs. "Oscar Verbinius. He was from District 11." The memory plays itself over in his mind. "And he was really pale. He had white hair and white skin and all the rest of it. The arena was snow, so he camouflaged by running naked."

Cinna nods. "I remember him."

"For whatever reason, I wanted to be just like him. He won because he could run fast." Peeta laughs. "So, when his victory tour was on the television, I ran out into the pantry and covered myself, head to toe, in flour." Cinna laughs, and Peeta grins with him, comfortable, safe in the past he's re-telling. "Even in my hair, pure white."

"Just like Oscar?"

"Yes!" Peeta chirps. "Just like Oscar!" His eyes glaze over again. "And I ran out, naked, all floured up, and sprinted across the meadow, pretending that I was in the Games, and that I was Oscar."

It's silent for a few moments, before Cinna speaks again. "You don't lie in 12 nymore, though?"

Peeta shakes his head, still on a high from the memory. "I'm a Surplus in 2."

It changes things, makes them somehow more tense. Cinna folds his hands. "That's awful." He murmurs. "Tell me about it." It's odd. Peeta's never spoken to anybody about it before. For the first time, the words betray him, he's not sure what he'll say. Cinna gives him a cue. "What about your patron?"

Peeta swallows. "I have two." He begins, nervous gain. "And I like them both, fine." His words become barely audible. "I hate it. I really love-"

Effie Trinket bounces in from the door, unnaturally chirpy. "Come no!" he squeaks. In her other hand, she's pulling Peeta' District partner along, Irving, who's outfit was also designed by Cinna, but was prepared separately. It's nothing like Peeta's, but has that same angle, all purity, and innocence, and youth. Neither tribute looks at the other as they head down towards the elevator.

In the wing below is a vision of hell. Don't fret: it's Lucifer's domain.

Cinna's idea of fire the previous year has caught, quite literally. Pathetic imitations are rife in ever design, with District 5 all lit up and 3 looking like something right out of a computer, spangled and green and wrong. The first two are at the front, and Peeta wants to avoid them as long as he can, because they'll be the first to kill him, for sure.

Irving gets herself into the chariot, and says nothing more on the matter. Needing privacy, Cinna brings Peeta away from the chariot. He strikes a match, but does nothing with it, for the minute.

"All you have to do is act natural and look memorable." The words are a grace, but obvious, too. Peeta swallows.

"It can't go any worse than the reaping." Which makes Cinna laugh.

"Exactly." He looks up at the boy again, still smiling. "Just think of Oscar Verbinius, Peeta. You'll do fine." The smile catches just like the fire on the match and Peeta feels happy, God forbid, he feels happy even though he's about to be dissected by the hungry masses of Capitol citizens waiting in the City Circle.

"Thank you." Peeta mumbles, his eyes downcast. Cinna corrects his posture.

"You're not a Surplus anymore. You're a celebrity. Head up. Big smiles. Like you mean it." With a calm hand, he places the match against the arm of Peeta's jacket, and the flame spreads.

In a single second, the yellow goes from faded and muted, to this unearthly, angelic lambency, like the end of a cigarette, bright as a weary firefly. The light spreads, making Peeta look even more unreal, and outherwordly, with the pallor accentuated, his hair looking like a gasp of lamplit lemon and his eyes as blue as the ocean, and just as deep. No more blood. No more crying.

The other tributes catch on quickly, and nothing feels better than watching them gasp, jealous, amazed, marvelling at Peeta Mellark, the baker's son, their canary, lighting up the wing in a delicate way. Peeta even manages a smile, and looks at Cinna moving his arms slightly, trying to remain sure he's still here, and hasn't floated off into some imagining.

He looks down the line of them, bold and defiant, and Peeta's got it all figured out, he's so sure he's mastered his Devil's Spoke and that he's going to be remembered, going to go down in history, glow brighter than the sun and twice as beautiful.

Peeta's certain.

And then he sees Cato.


	18. Act 4, Scene 4

The canary stares at Cato. And Cato stares back.

He barely recognises the surplus of 12. The boy is lightning up the entire wing with this angelic lambency, not of this world. It shimmers up his arms and down his back and Peeta's arms are behind him, limp, with curled hands. There are wings, or at least the shape printed on Peeta's shoulders, and the way he looks the, accents of yellow, with these enormous eyes filled with divine divination, he looks about ready to take off.

It's betrayal. Would be really take off, and leave the rest of them here?

Just like at the reaping, Peeta just freezes. That flicker, that light of a hint of a smile dies, and he looks scared. He should be: the boy means nothing away from the place they found him, and away from Clove. Here, Cato knows they'll kill him, and why should he stop them? At least it's one less thing he has to do. At the end of all things, the Districts and the Games and the costumes, Cato knows it's jealousy that bitters his gaze.

Envy to the point of violence that Clove would value the gift of life over a Surplus' words.

Cato goes to step forward, to cut the canary's song short, but he's called back by his stylist.

"We've no time," She choruses, in that awful, affected accent that gives this lilt to all of her words. The woman is a tiny little thing, and Cato knows he could crush her with one of his hands. Hell, he even remembers how easy it was to break Peeta's little fist and watch him flop around like a fish on a line. Imagine how easy it would be to kill a canary. "Into the chariot!" She cajoles.

Usually, Cato wouldn't stand for being ordered around like that. Usually. But this is no usual event, and he doesn't want to hurt his chances of winning. He thinks about trying to win over the audience, but then he realises Clove will be waiting, in the crowds, watching, and he can feel this faint smile stealing over his features at her mere thought.

But for the life of him, Cato cannot shake the sight of Peeta, glowing and yellow and ready to take flight. He knows that the sponsors will be taken with it, and they'll forget about him, which only makes Clove's job harder. He hopes she's feeling persuasive, because he isn't exactly eye-catching in what they've issued him.

No fire, or luminosity, nothing like that. His stylist has picked a very roman theme, complete with plain, white toga that matches with a pair of sandals. The only thing he thinks is remotely nice is the crown of laurels, sitting in the back of his hair. They've gone and bleached it. Clove has a soft spot for flaxen hair, and the paler the better. It doesn't help that Peeta's blonde doesn't stop with his hair, though. Cato wants to throw the cage into a coal mine and let that ridiculous canary choke.

His District partner looks thankfully, a little more ridiculous in her white sheet. Delysia isn't much of a speaker, or much for anything, really, and that's good. That helps. He considers speaking to her, because she's a Career and therefore bound to form an alliance with him, and the tributes from 1 and four, but before he can speak, the horses begin and the chariot lurches forward. He feels as if he'll fall.

Everything goes darker, for a second, and then Cato's squinting, his eyes sting from the sea of nauseating non colours and lights. His hearing is blown to bits from the screaming women, and the cheers from every last Capitol citizen, savage and wild with anticipation, a good hundred-thousand crammed into their seats, spilling over barriers, to see, and to judge and to cheer. Their already pink faces go purple with indignation and excitement, and, as usual, a few fainters are visible.

Self-aware to the point of nervousness, Cato lifts a hand, but attempts to remain removed, above it all, nonchalant. It's difficult, because the lurching of the chariot makes him feel sick and it's mixing with the bitterness of jealousy and pre-show jitters anyway, making this ugly mess of emotion that e has to keep hidden beneath a plain face. It's obvious that most of them recognise him as a victor, still fresh in their minds. It's terrifying to hear them chant 'Cato' like it's a secret, like it means something more.

He's only one-third of the way there when they turn their affections away completely, obsessed with a shinier, prettier thing to play with. In their mirrors and viewfinders, and in the ballads of their lip-mouths he can hear and see what it is that's turned them so quickly. This flash of yellow, this bird ready to take flight, and soar high above the reach of the Capitol. Their canary, soon to be lowered into the mine, but not soon enough. Cato scans the audience furiously for Clove, needing reassurance of his own mastery.

And when he finds her, she's facing down the rows of tributes, her eyes glowing yellow from the sigh of Peeta. Her boy, and her Surplus and her love indeed, Cato wants to scream. It seems so long ago that he stood side-by-side with the same girl, calming her before, laughing with her after. How quick she is to turn, and how heartlessly. By the time he's coming to the home stretch, he's not trying to hide his nerves, but his seething fury.

They slow and then come to a gentle stop. It barely registers, Cato is so wrapped up in the politics of this hell that he cares not a word to permit Snow's words to reach him. In his head, over and over, he can hear them laughing and singing and kissing and God's bread, he wants to wrap is hand around Peeta's throat and squeeze the life out of him. He thinks about the useless swine giving him this nervous smile, but it wasn't nervousness, it was smugness. That boy might as well have been wearing her lipstick as a talisman on his neck, as well as that stupid smile, and Cato wants to wipe it off his face, off the earth, out of existence.

By the time he's focused up again, striving to think of something else, their chariot is pulling away again, and he can't wait to get that Surplus alone, he can't wait to choke him. Unlike with Clove, he won't be interrupted, and the life will go from those holier-than-thou blues and he'll be just another body. Just like the arena. One more kill.

Their screams echo down through to the wing and pull Cato out of his reverie. Mind still absent, he holds himself steady with the front of the chariot and takes a few breaths, not deep but heavy with thought. The rest of the tributes are largely older, and experienced. They aren't afraid. The younger ones, Cato included, seem ironically, much more wearied by the parade.

It takes Cato a good ten seconds to calm himself to rationalisation before he steps out of the chariot. His feet keep him standing but he feels not the slightest bit secure on the ground. This parade confuses his memory of the last. Was Clove looking up at him last time, or away? Sick to death of being paired with him, because they leaned over her to get a glimpse of a more brutish contender.

District 1 seem pretty happy with themselves. As to why eludes Cato, they hardly lived up to the sparkle of their district. Cashmere, ahead, is difficult to look at for long, in a skin-tight faux-diamond gown next to her brother. They are both of a certain look, blonde hair and green eyes that remind Cato of an old muse, and then Glimmer's laugh comes back to haunt his, this airy, frivolous giggle that hurts his head and makes his stomach turn. All too soon, he cannot bear the sight and turns, rubbing his eyes.

Then all the breath gets shunted out of him.

Peeta throws his arms around Cato, clapping him on the back in this hug that's both unwanted and unexpected. The boy is no longer emitting a soft, pale, light, but looks no more human in his suit. The pallor of his bleached skin makes him look like a ghost, or a memory, and his eyes look strange and like the colour of seawater. Peeta dips his head and looks pained. Horrified.

"I didn't know." Peeta tells him. "I didn't watch the reapings." His voice is queer with this emotion, and, Jesus Christ, could he really be feeling sympathy? It serves to make Cato madder. He doesn't want sympathy, he wants Clove back, and he wants to win and to go back to things before the Surplus came along and stole her affections. The boy shakes his head. "I'm so sorry."

"You're not." Cato spits, grabbing Peeta's wrist, and holding his hand up to the light. It's flecked with white from where bones had torn through the pale flesh. "Not yet." The altered irises of Peeta's eyes run cold and his pupils shrink, he tries to pull his hand back, suddenly afraid, but he's not as strong as Cato, and much smaller. "Your hand's healed up pretty well, Loverboy."

Peeta winces. "You're hurting me," He whimpers. That's his mistake, he chooses the same words as Clove and it brings Cato's jealousy back -strengthens it. He's possessive, and that Surplus has no rights to come from nowhere and steal from him, this amber-shirted devil here to complete his daylight robbery.

Cato grips tighter, twisting a little. It serves to hurt Peeta more. "Jesus!" He whimpers again. "What are you doin-"

It serves to spur him on. "You'll find out if you touch my wife." The rest of the tributes are being congratulated by their mentors and stylists, they seem to take no notice to the pathetic noises escaping from their canary as Peeta flops against Cato, trying to get away without hurting either of them. His benevolence is dangerous. The Career feels his mouth open in some kind of manic smile, as if he's enjoying the damage he's dealing. "Just one more time. I swear to God I'll snap your neck."

The boy's face is going white, his mouth open in shock. He looks at Cato, his eyes wide. As if he can't understand any of it, as if he genuinely doesn't know what he has done to deserve this treatment. Cato affords no restraint to make the boy comfortable.

"I don't want-" Peeta starts, and then squeezes his eyes shut and yelps. He looks up at Cato again. "Please," He gasps. "It was once! I don't want her like tha-"

"Don't you lie to me, Surplus!" Cato realises he's shouting all too late and then everybody has turned to look. He's squeezing so hard that streaks of blood, small but stark, have begun to sprung from Peeta's fresh-wired embedded time. Next to Cato, the canary looks even more slight, and thin and miniscule: Cato must have at least twenty kilos on him, and years of practise.

Something in that statement breaks Peeta. His face goes flush and red, and he struggles more violently.

He cries just as stridently. "I'm not your Surplus!"

A few helpful Avoxes, along with stylists and mentors, come to break up to scuffle. Cato ignores them, set on making sure Peeta understands him, gripping as hard as he can.

"That piece on your wrist says that you belong to me, Loverboy." He hisses, being shoved and pulled by the crowd trying to break them apart. He's so set on destroying Peeta, that he notices nothing else but the look of defiance and helplessness on the Surplus' face. Peeta is deep red and it looks ugly next to the yellow of his canary-like attire. No longer able to fly away, or to sing, the Canary Is rendered songless and breathless with indignation.

He says nothing, and that only makes Cato angrier. "You wait 'til the arena!" He barks. "You're gonna be my fir-"

"Let him up." A sharp voice enters the fray. Both sympathetic and angry, Cato turns and sees Clove, and he drops Peeta right away, stunned into silence, knowing that he has disobeyed her again, he hadn't kept his word. The anger dissipates from him quickly, and Cato realises that his breathing is hard and ragged, that his face is red and there is blood on the tips of his fingers.

Peeta takes a few steps back, staring at his wrist, eyes wild with terror and his body shaking, He finally closes his mouth and swallows. The poor thing is trembling like a brittle leaf. Cinna puts a hand on his shoulder and starts to lead him away. Clove can just about hear him say "You should probably get out of here," before she turns back to Cato.

It's difficult to be angry with Clove at the best of times, but quite impossible tonight. She's been made up, but minimally, so that she's recognisable. He can see all of her freckles, and, God, he's always been partial to them, and the ones on her back that he likes to map out. Her hair is pulled down into a long plait, and they have her in white, perhaps to match her husband. Her laurels are curled in a bracelet, instead, and she has flowers peeking out of the plait.

"Clov-" ~Cato doesn't even get to the 'e' before she slaps him around the face, so hard that it leaves a patch of red that stings like sour candy. What makes it worse is knowing that even after Cato brought an array of whores into their bed, and Clove knew it, she just dropped her eyes and said 'oh' like he'd broken the salt shaker. This is about Peeta, that dangerous boy, the one that she seems so infatuated with. If Cato is going to fight in the Games again, he doesn't want to go knowing she'll not look at him.

"You made a fool out of me," She tells him, out of sorts and the dangerous kind of angry, the one that makes itself less apparent. The tributes are still staring, fascinated. No doubt this will add more fuel to the 'star-crossed lovers' story that throbs through the newsprint. He's sick of being media fodder, but he brings it upon himself. Cato tosses a look over his shoulder, to where Peeta is still trembling, walking off with his stylist. The wings on his back are heavy with sweat.

When he looks back, Clove has seen him looking, and raises a nasty finger in warning to him. "Don't stir a foot to seek a foe." Her eyes are narrow and cold. Cato wants so badly to have the same girl he laid to sleep, vulnerable and afraid and sweet, too, under all of that bitterness and sarcasm.

"I never-" He begins. Clove cuts him off.

"Now's not the time," She snaps. The fight has died down and the tributes have lost interest, ready to head up to get some dinner, and some rest. Cato has lost his appetite. He stares at Clove, wanting the words to come, wanting to be able to say something that will stir her, but he's not good with the words. Clove rubs the swell of her stomach, taking a deep breath with eyes closed, before she opens them again. "Just-" She sighs. "Get gone."

As Clove departs, Cato feels paralysed and useless. "Where are you going?" He calls after her. She clicks her tongue in annoyance, spinning around.

"To talk to Peeta,"

And with that, he is sure he's lost her.

Upstairs, Peeta' still trembling. It's not fear that's bitten him, but something more beautiful and sinister, and stronger altogether. He keeps his wrist over the sink, as Cinna washes away the small spray of blood. When it's clean enough, he wraps the bruises in a damp towel and sits down in the living area, leading Peeta over, too.

"Well," Cinna begins in a soft voice. "The important thing is, you both looked amazing. You made a real impression, Peeta." The boy sniffs and draws his knees up to his chest, leaning his arms on them and hiding his face. It's not Peeta's bruises (or possible spraining) or even the insults that have him suddenly robbed of words, and of joy for the evening. It's something deeper, and a lot harder to get at or fix. "You're all they're going to be talking about."

Peeta looks up belatedly, and nods. "That's good," He says.

Cinna seems to understand that something is wrong with Peeta, and graciously decides not to pick at scabs or pester him, but instead pours them both glasses of water, and waits with patience. "You should change. I can feel every crease you're putting in that jacket." It does the trick and Peeta gets out a small laugh, before rising shakily, and heading into the bedroom. He still isn't used to all of this lavishness. Before he reaches the door, Cinna stops him.

"How long?" He asks.

"I couldn't say." Peeta sniffs.. "But I hate it, and there's nothing I can do." And just like that, he departs, leaving them both painfully aware of the boy's biggest adversary, not sponsors or allies or infection or dehydration. Something else.

From across the room, Effie Trinket crosses her legs, pats down her skirt, and blinks. "He hates what?"

"Nevermind," Cinna sighs. There's nothing to be done anyway.

Peeta's halfway through done with his glowing canary-like suit when there's a small rap on the door. What does he care if Cinna sees him shirtless? He's been in far less dignified situations, so he just says 'Come in' and continues in the dim of the room over to the clothes folded on the bed. Pale blue, thankfully, and not white like his Surplus uniform.

The door creaks and he looks, expecting the kind eyes of Cinna, all flecked with gold, or at worst Effie, with some blinding shade of green knocking him backwards. Of course, instead, it's somebody smaller, in a neutral shade of white, looking like an angel without wings, and when she looks over at Peeta he can't help but feel blessed. Not Effie Trinket, but Clove.

"Peeta," She calls, and right away he fumbles with the shirt because he feels shy. What must she think, being used to Cato, the perfect physical specimen of a man? Peeta's thinner and weaker and shorter, and right at this moment he seeks to be on his own. She closes the door behind her, but waits on the other side of the room, which in itself is bigger than most of the bakery. "Peeta, please," Her voice goes tender. "Talk to me."

He says nothing. Clove comes in some more, and sets herself down on the corner of Peeta's mattress.

"Cato's jealous because he was upstaged." She sighs, leaning back on her arms. Peeta turns, dressed, and shakes his head.

"I'm sorry," his laugh is bitter and mirthless. "I didn't seem him grabbing for Irving, or Cinna," Clove drops her face, because she knows what's coming. There have been a few instances when Peeta becomes stubborn and malignant, and she's seen enough to know it doesn't suit him, the canary, the boy with the words. "You know why he's angry, Clove. He knows that I kissed you."

The girl burns up. "What does Cato care if I kissed you?" She snaps. "He didn't care when he brought all of those-" Clove is absolutely breathless and she even looks on the verge of crying, which is probably more to do with the stress of the evening than a lack of control. "—those sluts into our bed and fucked them, over and over." She trembles. "Why should now be any different?"

Peeta moves slowly across the room and sits next to her. He hooks an arm around her shoulders, and for some reason, that sets Clove off into weeping. "I'm sorry," She blubbers. "I'm not usually like this."

"Neither am I," He says, smiling, rubbing up and down her arm. "C'mon," He coughs. "It's okay." They sit there, in the moderate darkness before Clove is a little more in control of herself. She wipes at her eyes and feigns a smile, but Peeta can see right through her. "I'm so sorry this happened to you,"

She nods, rubbing her eyes. "It feels like an eternity ago that we made it out," Her voice takes on a nostalgic tone, and she remembers. "Since I was last here, and he…" She laughs. "He asked me to marry him, in front of all of those people."

Peeta smiles. "It's hard to picture you two as romantic, ever." Clove laughs, too.

"Jesus, no." Her eyes are drying quickly. She looks a lot more cheerful than she did. "We had so many arguments about nothing. Cato was so obsessed with me taking his name, the stupid bastard." Her hands are in her lap, she plays with the ring on her finger, this ridiculous thing all studded with diamonds, and she doesn't like diamonds, either, she likes sapphires. It's gold, too, but when she looks into Peeta's eyes she knows that silver is easily good enough for her.

"Did he convince you?" The boy asks, quietly. Clove sniffs, and nods.

"Eventually," Clove stares forward. "Don't get married, Peeta," She says, half-in-jest, but half serious. Peeta knows it isn't the time to say something smart, because she won't want to hear it. He rubs her arm again and she sighs again, dropping her head onto his shoulder.

It's then that she realises it: they're touching. They're touching and Peeta's hand is against her arm and their skin is in contact, and Peeta feels good and he's so gentle and careful, she feels something flutter inside of her. This strange feeling that she hasn't felt in so long: hope, laced with fear, laced with love and lust and betrayal and it's all too much. The feeling of warmth that his skin radiates makes her feel even more giddy.

Clove feels brave and stupid. She feels angry at Cato and when she looks at Peeta it just breaks her.

She leans forward, and up, and goes to kiss the boy. And he could do it, in this darkness, with no Cato to catch them, he could lean back down and kiss her and run a hand up her back and deepen his affections, Jesus Christ, finally touch her after all those contact-starved nights that drove her wild. Instead, though, Peeta goes the opposite way.

"Clove." He says in a grave tone. "You should probably go find your husband."

Embarrassed, she turns away. "Well you saw Cato just now. Swell guy, isn't he? Spends all of his time thinking about what he's gonna do to the people he doesn't like, and he doesn't like anybody."

Peeta winces. "He likes you."

"He likes to win. That's all I ever was: a way to win those stupid Games." She's growing more and more emotional again. Peeta isn't sure what to say.

"You can't sleep with a victory," He says, quietly.

"But you can sleep with a whore for a fee." She retorts, malicious.

"That's just sex!" Peeta cries out, exasperated. "It's not as if he can go and un-sleep with all of those women, but that doesn't mean Cato doesn't genuinely love you-"

Clove holds up that nasty finger that she uses when she's warning or accusing somebody, usually Cato. Peeta doesn't like being on the receiving end of this. Her glare is so cold he wants to go and put on a jumper. "You got your hand on a big red button that you do _not_ want to push." Peeta holds his hands up, and drops his eyes in a solemn nod.

When he looks back up again, Clove is at the other side of the room, with her hand on the handle. She doesn't look at him when he leaves, leaving Peeta all alone with himself in the dark.

She walks to the elevator and rides down to two, her pride wounded, in need of the assurance that at least one person still finds her beautiful. And it's hard to be angry with Cato when Peeta has just betrayed her like that. It's okay, though, because Peeta's just a Surplus, and Cato is a victor, her husband, he's more broken, and damaged.

She slips into bed next to him, seeing sour mash whiskey half-finished in a glass by the bed. It wouldn't do to dwell on Cato's faults: she could say a lot against him, but she can say so much for him too. He's asleep, and she shakes his shoulder, tiredly.

"Cato," Her voice is quiet. "Cato, wake up." He stirs relatively quickly and stares at her. One of his hands comes up slowly to the side of her face, and Clove thinks _'yes, this is what I need_' because she knows that Cato finds her beautiful, just as she does him. After a while, he whispers to her.

"Are you still angry with me?" Clove shakes her head. Cato isn't drunk, thank the Lord, but he isn't fully there, from the tiredness and something else, too. "Do you wish you could marry Peeta?" She hesitates, and then shakes her head again. Cato smiles, sleepily. "Still my girl." Possessive, but also loving, he wraps both of his arms around her, one on the small of her back and the other on her abdomen. "_Girls_," He mumbles again, and then slips into sleep so quickly, too quickly, like slipping into death.

She thinks about Cato as she watches him, looking peaceful, and young, too young to face the horrors of the arena again. Clove knows she's being hard on him, she can't imagine what it would be like to face going in again, and part of her says this prayer of thanks that she's pregnant. It's that thought that makes her resolve to go easy on him. Then, of course, she thinks of Peeta, and how they once kissed and then did not touch and how now they touch but he will not kiss her, another dizzy truth. She's still angry with him, for wounding her pride, for siding with Cato at the worst of times.

Why does she feel so bad now? What does she care who Cato sleeps with? Of course, she knows the answer, and she figures this is proof enough that she loves him, in her own strange way, maybe not much or maybe loads, but the anger, the betrayal, it makes her certain she wants him alive. Why couldn't she be enough for Cato? What had she done so wrong that he sought the help of other women?

Clove is pushed back into action by two fierce little kicks that feel somewhere up near her ribs. She takes two deep breaths and settles so that she's facing Cato, their noses a few inches apart. She grips his hand, all curled with sleep.

"You'll find your way back to me," She whispers to him. "Find your way back, Cato."


	19. Act 4, Scene 5

(AN: Sorry for taking so much time! I've had four major exams this week, but that's the bulk of it all over [;)

Cato wakes to a host of individual sins.

They are all his own, and as he comes to, drowning in the sheets, and the nightmares, they surround him. It's the sight of Clove, sleeping next to him, clasping his hand as if in the grip of a fitful dream that breaks Cato, and he squeaks out of shock, scrambling backwards, falling out of the bed. Free of the sheets that suffocate him like water, Cato manages to click his heels, and get the devil's in line. It's just a trick, he knows that.

It's a good trick, though. And when Clove lays there, in the dream, she looks just as she does now, peaceful, sleeping. Her lips are slightly parted and her face is lively colour, where Death's pale flag cannot advance. At any moment, her eyes might flutter and she'll awake, she'll rise and have all the life come back to her. The trick is that it's so easy to forget. Some nights he just clings to her, and listens to her heart, and knows, but the steady pulse, that it has all been worth it.

The bedroom is dark, all of the wild Capitol colours in the twilight hushfulness. He gets to his feet and wanders over to the window, opening it slightly, but closing it. Outside, the city is sleepless, with wild cheers and screams for those twenty-four. Yet, how many will return? Few, too few, for whistles and bells and gongs. To Cato, the buildings look ageless, as they have always done, with sharp corners and rows of eyes disguised as windows.

It's warm, but cloudy, and there's a storm coming. Cato turns. What time is it? He makes out the numbers on Clove's nightstand, as early, too early, and he knows he won't sleep again tonight.

He scoops up the laurel-leaf crown from the floor and climbs back onto the bed, above the sheets, throwing glances at clove every now and then. She's dreaming: every now and then expressions flick across her face, but for the most part she remains relaxed. All of that rage goes out of Clove when she sleeps, and anything to make her smile. It's the best side of her to admire.

He sits next to her, tearing out each individual leaf and tossing them onto the duvet besides him, lost in thought. He tries to process everything, but is unable to. Every time he blinks, he expects to be home, in District 2, with silence outside of the window, with sheets that smell of violets and honey. At home, the mattress is like a meadow, and when Cato sleeps he can see the stars. There are no stars here. It seems all the light is artificial, and twinkles coyly like the lights on Caesar Flickerman's midnight blue suit.

When he's picked the crown down to it's skeleton he notices that one of the laurel leaves has fallen onto Clove's lips. Each time she breathes in, it moves down slightly, and when she exhales, it rises, catching the heat of the room and dwindling slowly down. It's almost comical, and Cato watches, quite fascinated, until she sighs and it is swept off to the side of the bed. He considers placing another leaf onto her lips, but it wouldn't be the same, and he doesn't want to wake her.

Clove likes flowers. Or, at least, she likes some. Overall, Clove hates conventionally romantic things, she despises roses, and chocolate hearts and diamonds given on beaches under the stars. But every so often, she'll find a particularly rare pare of Galbanna Lillies in blue, and she buys three dozen, puts them in every room to brighten up the place. And on a rare occasion, she won't mock him when he buys her silk or glass or gold, but take it, with this strange look. She doesn't believe in chivalry, or true kindness.

Everything has a price.

(Back at home, when she turned sixteen, Clove would receive little gifts from her suitors. They were all run of the mill, all of the things she despised, and Cato would find her on the banks of the Silverflow, on the edge of town, committing light arson by setting them aflame. Usually, he'd join her.

And every day, Cato would say "I pity the fool who ends up tied to you."

Then of course, the boy that used the mace, in Cato's yeargroup, gave her a set of knives, with engravings on the handles, and Clove set the bank, not burning them, but holding them.

He knew that Clove was kissing this boy, and that she laughed at his jokes and smiles at his humour.  
All of a sudden, it wasn't pity Cato started to feel, but something else, something stranger and less recognisable. Clove got bored with the knives eventually. Cato did not become bored with her. )

His reverie is cut short when a crack of thunder tears through the sky outside. Cato likes to be right, but he feels no particular satisfaction when the rain starts to fleck the windows. When the thunder strikes again, louder, it half-wakes Clove up, and he eyes flutter, her breathing becomes conscious. While Cato likes to be on his own, seeing her like this makes him feel otherwise, he wants to be as near to her as possible.

She turns onto her side and finds him. Somehow rehearsed, she moves herself along, and hooks an arm around him. "Go to sleep," Clove can still pull a command pretty well, and Cato feels it, this tiny little tug, this desire to obey. Her eyes remain closed. Her hearing must be better than his by a good mile.

Cato says nothing. What can he say? One of his hands falls to her neck, and he strokes the thick of her hair, black like sin, if sin were a colour. He smiles at the image before him: Clove is so small, so tiny that he could just keep her here, forever, hidden from the ugliness of the Games, safe and good. At least, that;'s what he's thinking right up until he feels her kick him, hard and swift, right in the shin.

"Hey!" He yelps, moving away a bit. Clove smiles, eyes still closed, like she's proud of herself. It's ironic that she wants him to win so desperately in the arena, because she's already started physical abuse of some sort here. "What did I do?" he asks, incredulous. Clove sighs.

"Don't talk so damn loudly." She mutters, burying her face further into his shoulder. Cato throws up his hands, but smiles nonetheless. "If I can't sleep, then you don't get to." For a second, her eyes open, and she fixes these impossible emeralds onto him, looking younger somehow, and then different. She's playful, that's not unusual, but it becomes more and more rare. Now, in the silence of their conversations, she thinks of Peeta, and no doubt imagines him in a wonderful array of situations.

"You want me to get you some sleep syrup?" He asks, watching her yawn, mewling like a kitten, before settling again, moving so that her head is on his chest. Naturally, Cato can only forgive the intrusion, and he does, right away. She's warm, but not the stormy kind. The fiery kind that makes you want to stay in the steady warmth.

Clove kicks him in the shin again, and she grimaces for a second. "Because that worked so beautifully last time." She reminds him.

"Don't be so superior, darling, it doesn't become you." She kicks him again, as hard as she can muster, and he lets out a small whimper, one half pain and the other theatrics. "What the hell's the matter?"

She rubs her eyes and sighs again, flinching when the thunder comes bellowing outside. She wouldn't ever admit to being afraid, and Cato is too tried to ask it of her, so her just pulls her in a bit closer and strokes her back. It's the only excuse they both need. "Bad dreams?" He asks, in a small voice.

She shakes her head, eyes slipping shut. "Baby." Clove mumbles. "I swear she's up in my ribs."Still wrapped in one of his arms, Clove turns onto her back and opens her tired eyes, shifting so that she's sat up a little more. It's darker than she first though, and much earlier. Too early for it to be raining and storming. Good, she thinks. Let is storm. Let the cyclones tear through the entire Capitol. Anything to stop these Games.

Cato stares at her, unreadable, but certainly thinking something, figuring away with that look in his eyes. Frankly, it makes Clove nervous. She drops her eyes, ignoring the flashes of lightning that follow the roars of thunder, that make her jump. She shuts her eyes and tries to get back to sleep, all nestled up against her husband, who is calm and tender, a million miles from the man she saw last night. But every time she gets even the slightest bit drowsy, the same small sensation snaps her into alertness again.

And every time, she kicks Cato in the shins.

After a while, he swings his feet over the edge of the bed and rubs the bruises already forming. Clove would smile if she wasn't dog-tired, and just generally world-weary. Instead, she remains where she is, expressionless, hoping that the storm will die away and leave her in peace and quiet, golden quiet.

"There has to be a better way of doing this," He suggests, with the hint of a smile, but staying on the edge of the bed.

Clove smirks. "You could always have your-"

"One that doesn't involve bodily mutilations, sweetheart." They both laugh, and he leans back to give her a kiss. She graciously accepts, finding her way in the dark, knowing it so well. He tastes musky like the iron of blood and the yellow flowers on their sill, but mostly honey, as if he's been dipped in it, and this tiny hint of something else, something life-depriving, like death, bottled. It's so familiar that she no longer thinks of it. She can't help but notice now.

Clove notices because she's scared it will be her last chance. She tries to memorize his lips, and every single detail of his face, lest it be the last she gazes there. He's so beautiful, too young, and too lovely, what a man,, a man of max, and Panem's summer has not such a flower. How can she hope to exist without Cato making her cry and scream and laugh? How can she watch him in that arena, distant and helpless?

Their lips part, but she keeps him close to her, content to breathe him in, to be quite sure he won't dissolve into the air. The desperation gives her away, and Cato can read the thought as if it were a line from a page. But a page in a book read in reverse, and as the stakes get raised Clove understands less with each chapter.

"I'm not going anywhere soon," Cato reminds her, softly. "You can't get rid of me that easy,"

"You say that," Clove manages, weakly. She's so tired of all of this emotion, sprung form nowhere, suddenly, that ruins their conversations. It's so much easier not to care, or at least to pretend, but recently it's gotten harder and harder to the point of hysteria. She doesn't say anything else, and lets her gaze speak for her, which it does. Cato might not be all that great at reading people, or insights he understands her petty well and nods,putting his arms around her, making her feel safe and home.

Cato sighs. "I'm not pushing daisies yet, Clover." When they both know he'd be pushing up roses. "Sleep." They both pile into the sheets, no more nightmares or thunder, which dies down into heavy, peaceful rain. It patters on the Capitol flowers and against the windows, trying to clean up the ugly marks left, trying, as Peeta said, to wash it all away.

Arms around her, Cato is the first to doze off, with this small smile on his face because even if he never lost her, he has Clove, and that's better then he can hope to dream. His sleep is undisturbed and quiet, no screams, no tricks or devils or individual sins. It's the silent, good kind of rest that leaves him nourished as he goes, deeper and deeper into the grip of the sandman. Clove fits his arms, she was made to lay in them.

After long enough, she finally gets to sleep.

When Clove wakes up, she feels like she's falling.

Down she goes, deeper and deeper into this rabbit hole, and in her close-lidded darkness, she swears she can see this gathering of red rabbits in pinstripe suits, staring at her, chattering amongst themselves in little natters. One of them locks eyes with her, these cobalt oceanic blues that terrorize her, and sits up, her head still spinning, gripping by the same falling sensation. The red rabbits have fallen silent, and they're turned, coming nearer and nearer to the bed.

She blinks furiously, and gapes, open-mouthed at them. "What-"

An arm fixes around her side, and pulls her back to laying, pressed up against Cato in the sheets. "Sh, it's alright." He murmurs into her ear. The sound of his voice, deep and still like the Silverflow River makes the red rabbits scurry away, and when Clove looks again, they've all disbanded. "Go back to sleep." he says.

So she does. And she dreams of the red rabbits, staring at her that are much too smart and wild to be wearing pinstripe while they hop around. It's one big oxymoron, a clockwork orange, and they stare some more, the fabric awkwardly settled around their shoulders. The peace is smoother than Peeta's words and more redeeming than the water, it feels better than flowers or light arson.

After another few hours, she feels stirring from behind her, and that moves her into waking. Cato has slipped out of the bed, and it pulling on a jacket when she turns her head. He looks taller, too tall and enormous to be so intelligent, to have such sharp eyes and wit. For the longest while, she just stares, her mouth open slightly, her eyes fixed. It must be a strange sight to behold, and then she manages to speak, through a larynx rusted over with sleep.

"Where are you going?" She asks. Cato adjusts his sleeves.

"For a walk." He says, not brusquely. It's still raining out, she can hear the rain tapping at the window like some secret lover, or like a priest eager and ready to hear the confession of a man such as Cato. He's got a lot to be sorry for, to confess. It was those sins, so secret, that used to fuel his jabs and punches and hits. Now they sit, solitary.

Clove rolls onto her side, and adjusts her pillow. "Be on time for Breakfast." She orders him. "It's the first day of Training tomorrow, and you could do with a headtstart." Of course, tired, full of reflection and pensiveness, Cato barely realizes aware that there's bait to be taken, let alone actually takes it. He leans across the sheets and gives Clove another true kiss, another so good that she nearly forgets all about those red rabbits. As I say, nearly.

"Don't be late." she warns him, drowsy. Cato grins.

"You can trust me, you know." he chides to her, full of energy at such an ungodly hour. It's barely broken sunrise, and yet Cato seems to have had enough rest to sustain them both a good amount of time. It's ridiculous, but then, Clove knows that the situation and the Games and most things in life are, too.

"I wouldn't trust you to find your ass with both hands." She laughs to him, and then stretches, turning back onto her side. "Take an umbrella."

Cato lingers just long enough to give her another squeeze, finding her beautiful but _being_beautiful, too, having the audacity to be lovely when things around him are at their darkest and ugliest. "Where would I be without your infinite wisdom?" He chuckles to her, and thus, with a kiss, he's gone just as quickly as he woke her.

She isn't sure how long he will be gone, or when he will return. It's always been like that between them. They have never agreed on much, and they like to hurt eachother with words. That's the attraction, they need eachother. It's necessity, and it's physical, too. Clove loves to know that he finds her beautiful, just as she wants him, she has wanted him from early on. And Clove is happiest when she gets what she wants.

It's different with Peeta. Of course, she doesn't find him unattractive. There are things she would change, and things she'd keep. But their lack of touch means that their relationship has almost no physical basis, she can't say one word against another if she desires him, physically. The way he speaks, though, it has her swayed to swooning. Peeta could take any three, nonsensical words, and spin them in such a way they would sound deep, and honest and believable.

She won't be listening to him much more. To remember Peeta's reaction, so quick, so certain that he didn't want her still fogs up and Clove wants to smash the glass.

It's a disaster on all accounts. Mostly because they're both likely to die, to be murdered and Clove will have to watch, unable to help, unable to bleed with either of them. But, to a lesser extent, she's ashamed. She doesn't want to be this stupid, indecisive girl, like the ones that abound here in the Capitol. It's the last of her desires to tease either of them, but it's hard to explain.

While Clove sleeps, Cato walks around the city. He's been to the Capitol a few times, during and after the Games. In the very early morning downpour he eats lunch and leave his jacket on a bench, heading towards a large, dome building that has engravings in the stonework. His shirt is seer when he arrives, shivering in his seer clothes. He visits memorials of the tributes he slayed and thinks about them as he wanders aimlessly through the morning, letting the water wash all the blood and hatred away. He could win, he knows, but he could also die, and if it;s the latter, he'd like a clear conscience.

As more and more people fill the streets, he's suddenly aware of the time, and in the midst of another storm, he manages to slip back, unnoticed, dripping wet. The elevators are thankfully empty, and he rides up to two in silence, thinking about last year's Games and this year. How will the arena fare?

Cato hopes it's not swimming, or skiing, or something equally ridiculous. Warm weather would be nice. Maybe a desert oasis, or something a little more unconventional than a forest. He'd hate snow, or rain, or something cold. Those are usually the harshest terrains to survive in. Will the plants and animals be safe or poisonous? He struggles to think of anything else. It will change everything, the actual landscape.

Although the odds haven't exactly been in his favour.

He towels down in the spare room and changes into the uniform, black, with accents of grey, and red, and a small two on his arms, to show the world. As if he cares about the pride of his District this year. Delysia can make them proud. He needs to win, to get back to Clove, not out of some pathetic need for praise or recognition. Cato feels his ego is pretty healthy, thanks very much. He goes to wake Clove as soon as he's ready.

She doesn't notice Cato until he's sat on the edge of the mattress, fiddling with his socks, a slice of toast being held between his jaws. Clove is tired, and her brain aches from the merciless winds of thought that knife her, so instead of saying something clever, or indeed at all, she stares at the curve of his spine, contentedly.

He looks over his shoulder and smirks to see her looking, pulling the toast out of his mouth. "Done catching flies, sweetheart?" Clove gets out a laugh and sits up, pulling the sheets around her.

"Shut up," She says, smiling, because she's only just woken up and it wouldn't shut him up, anyway. Her words only spur Cato on, and he leans back on his hands looking at her with that shit-eating grin.

"I gotta say, your mentoring skills are admirable, so far," He chides her. "I guess it's the fashion to be late."

"This is important." She reminds him. "Make smart alliances. Pick people you trust."

Cato laughs, humourlessly. "I don't trust any of them," He smirks, knowingly, and tilts his head like he does when he's figuring, which Cato doesn't like doing all that much. "You're just assuming I'll pick the wrong people." The accusation is right on the mark. She hopes he is just as to the point.

"How could I doubt a social butterfly like you?." That breaks the tension between them, which is what's needed. After the tribute parade, they've both been at odds and it's nice to speak freely, without the restraint of lies, or half-truths. "Don't lose your temper. You've made a bad enough first impression as it is."

Cato's smile turns hard, and he bites his tongue before getting something out. " Yeah, well." He mutters. "He had it coming." Clove makes a pained face, out of annoyance and stiffness. But mostly annoyance.

"His stylist is better than yours. Sure, he was really asking for that." she mocks him, but by the time she's finished, Cato is sitting to face her, and his face is growing darker and darker. His arms are enormous, and his hands are huge, and all Cato has to do is get the smallest bit angrier, all he has to do is reach out and squeeze, and she'll never bother him again.

Cato scans her face, and seems to be considering her. "You think that was about the parade?" His tone is bordering on both incredulous and edgy. She knows that directly responding would be like walking with blisters, so she remains where and how she is, with a simple nod sufficing. "It's about him kissing you."

Clove swallows. "You nearly broke his wrist."

That serves not to register to Cato. He folds his arms across his chest. "I'll snap his neck."

"Then you'll have to break my wrist, too." She says, all defiance, and bravery. She's so tired of being unhappy, and afraid. It's like Peeta says: it's brave to be happy, or to even try, because she's so comfortable in her misery that it would be grand to make up one day and strive, to let the water wash everything away. Somehow she thinks Cato doesn't share her philosophy. "I kissed him, too, Cato."

"Clove-" He starts, weakly, his face going from hostility into hurt, this flicker that's seen so rarely. Clove feels no guilt in cutting him with words, the blood just goes to prove he's still alive.

"And you can snap my neck, too." Her words seem strange, as if they don't belong to her, or come from her. Truth be told, they sound ore like Peeta's, they have his inflexion. "Because I wanted to kiss him. I liked i-"

Her words are cut off when Cato grabs her, all of a sudden, by both arms and gives her a good, violent shake, his face red with indignation, hot with shame and something else, not jealousy, but perhaps defeat, or even fear. Yes, that's it. He's afraid, he thinks he has already lost her to the boy with his words, and his dreams. His voice is pinched and gruff when he talks.

"Don't-" Jesus, he's even more wounded than Clove anticipated. The blood is there for sure, but she want find it on the mortal flesh. It's hidden deeper, and it will take much more than some Capitol plaster to fix it. "Don't say that." In a single motion, he lets go of her as if he can no longer bear to touch her, and it makes Clove want to scream. Why can't all of this be done? Every time she grabs for her Devil, he slips from his Spoke.

They say nothing more on the matter. There is nothing else she can say. In a hurry, they both finish dressing and head down, where Atala is already halfway through her speech. Clove kisses him as he departs, and says "I love you."

Her eyes aren't locked into his, but over his shoulder, and Cato doesn't look then, knowing what he finds will not be pretty.

He just hopes it's not Peeta.


	20. Act 4, Scene 6

Musing on the idea of setting somebody on fire doesn't mean that you really want to. It's just the thought of it that makes Cato happy. Of course, that's only for a second, and then he thinks of the awful repercussions.

But that second can be a lot of fun.

He stands, half-listening to words he heard last year, but his mind is elsewhere. The sight of Peeta triggers it initially. The boy is one of the smallest, standing there looking very serious. In Cato's mind, he's already taken a gasoline shower and is wailing as the flames engulf him, all the while Cato stands with a box of matches, cackling manically. Them, of course, he thinks of Clove, watching, screaming, running for water, and the image doesn't seem so pleasing.

When Cato comes out of the thought, he realizes he's staring blankly at Peeta, and he's noticed, squirming uncomfortably, hands stuffed awkwardly into his pockets. Not wanting to be caught off guard, Cato sizes up the game, the competition, starting with the Surplus.

He's not got much on him, to start with, built but not all that well. Maybe Peeta's plenty smart, and will be able to find a decent shelter and live off of berries or some such. Maybe Peeta's as good as Clove seems to think, and will be able to sway Sponsors so that he never has to leave a certain spot for food or matches or weapons. That could be the case. But, ultimately, Peeta wouldn't last all that long at Cato's mercy. He's unprepared and weak.

The Careers are a mix. Cashmere and Gloss, both mid-twenties, charismatic enough and in okay physical condition, overall. Cato knows right away that they are a good bet, bait for sponsors, with decent survival abilities. His District partner, Delysia, is older, and in worse shape. She won't last all that long, and he can afford to disregard her. Four looks good, two fairly young things, the girl with short hair, and scars all up her face that lose her sexual appeal, but the male on good form.

Peeta isn't looking around for allies. He doesn't look to like, if looking or liking would move him to action. No deeper does he regard the others as his prospects of winning give strength to fly. That's it, in a nutshell. Peeta knows he's going to die, and one of the other tributes will kill him, or at least help him along the way. Honestly? Peeta knows he's smart enough not to die from dehydration, or starvation, or freezing. But threats like infection, or the ever-present fear of Cato slitting his throat are very real, and almost unavoidable.

It would still be nice to have somebody to talk to. He doesn't want to die, and certainly not alone. At least if he had a good ally, maybe even a friend, they could kill him quickly, mercifully. Peeta would like that. Otherwise, he knows it will be agony. Cato will have it his way, what with holding a vendetta, moaning Clove's name like something out of a Tennessee Williams novel as he comes lunging, knife-in-hand, starting with Peeta's eyes, down in the lines to carve up his face like a grimacing smile.

As soon as Atala is done speaking, Peeta sees the Career crowd heading for weaponry to intimidate the others and boast their prowess. He heads in the opposite direction, as far away as possible, to tie some knots with the tributes from District 3. Both are middle-aged and quiet, so Peeta thinks they'll be more polite than murderous. He gets his hands busy, watching as the other two, having already won Games of their own, effortlessly tie 'devil's tongue' knots over and over, with fingers that work fast as slander.

Peeta masters a few of the basics and looks over his shoulder, deciding where to when he's finished at this station. He looks long enough to meet Cato's unwavering gaze, before the Career makes short work of a mannequin's arms, and head, before burying his weapon up to the hilt where a heart would be. Peeta turns back around quickly, recognizing the warning, starting to tremble. He slumps against the table and lets out a shaky breath.

"I need some air." He mumbles, rubbing his eyes. Straightening, he turns his face to the man next to him, a bespectacled tribute from 3 by the name of Beetee and considers him. "Ever feel like all the oxygen left the room?"

"Oh my, yes." The man named Beetee but more often referred to us 'Volts' seems to recognize in Peeta some common ground. However, his pathology runs much deeper, into a very real fear that the earth could lose atmosphere at any moment and all the air would be sucked off into the vacuum of space.

"You're not wrong about..." The woman besides Beetee, only known to Peeta as 'Nuts', mumbles, but loses her train of thought almost immediately and begins staring at nothing in particular once more. Beetee gives a nervous smile, as if trying to convince somebody -anybody -that she's normal.

"About the oxygen leaving the room," He finishes for her, and finishes up his latest knot, which seems like a total mess until he lays it down, and Peeta can see the almost too-intricate shape it makes. He's unsure where it could be used, or if, indeed, it could be useful in any snare art all, but he isn't short of impressed.

Feigning distress, he lifts his own mess of tangles from the table. "You think you could teach me to do that?"

Beetee nods.

The lesson in each type of k not is short and Peeta listens without question, managing to reproduce most quite well. Every now and then, he glances over his shoulder, only to have his nightmares confirmed. As it turns out, Cato is also pretty proficient with a spear, and he's even better with just his hands. Peeta dreads to think what the man would be like, given a bit of stimulus or incentive, given motivation like Clove's affections.

He turns back to his rope, nervous.

"Might I make an observation?" Beetee takes the rope and replicates another labyrinth of curls and tugs and ties that Peeta simply can't memorize. He keeps his eyes on the knot until he realizes that Beetee has spoken.

"I'm sorry?"

"Neutral thought," Beetee repeats himself with an infinite patience, giving his District partner and unseen smile before turning back to Peeta. "Neither complimentary nor critical." Seeking desperately for something to take his mind off of Cato, and all of that business, Peeta shrugs, leaning against the table again. That gives the older man enough leave to speak again. He gestures to behind them and then looks at Peeta again. "That Career seems something against you."

Peeta opens his mouth to speak, and then slams it shut, and then opens it again. "I hadn't noticed." he says, dully.

Beetee gets out a small laugh. "I'm sure he's just throwing his weight around. Careers are like that." They go back to the rope and learn another few knots, all the while Peeta feels his insides tying themselves up into all sorts of shapes, feeling a pair of eyes focused on him, set to kill.

"I hope so," He says. But he's still afraid.

Peeta spends most of the day away from weapons, and as far away from Cato as he can get, learning more neutral skills like edible plants and making fires and camouflage, which he turns out to make a bit of a flare for. It's no different to decoration back home, and by the end of an hour his arms match the bark of the tree by the station. The instructor is reasonably impressed.

Of course, then Peeta gets carried away, seeing all of these beautiful dyes and colours, so he clears a space and dips his fingers into the hues, wiping streaks of yellow straight onto the table. He has never had the freedom or means to paint much, so when he does, it's like a passionate affair with a lost love, he soon forgets about where he is or who might be watching and tries to paint what he finds most beautiful.

"Is that-" Beetee leans over, and gets a good glimpse at the rendering. His face turns into a frown out of confusion. He nods. "I see." Quickly, indignant and ashamed, Peeta wipes it all away quickly, rinsing down his arms to remove any trace of skill. He doesn't dare look at Beetee, having been caught out. It brings him back, and reminds him of where he is.

At the fire-making station, things come to a quiet, and Peeta thinks he might just survive the day without some kind of drama when an awful clatter of metal rings throughout the room. It comes in fast, and it's then he realizes that a small conversation between two tributes has become a shouting match. Peeta knows the sound of Cato's voice well, and he knows it better when it's painted red with fury.

He turns, alarmed, seeing an older man with the number seven on his sleeve being shoved backwards, into a bench. On all counts, Cato has the advantage, being taller and stronger and a lot more angry. His face is red, and his hands are all curled up. At least he isn't coming for me, Peeta reminds himself, watching the drama unfold.

Seven makes the first swing, and soon enough, they're at it, brawling like boys in the schoolyard, only with much more force and an unnerving skill. At first, it's superficial, and the Avoxes are in no hurry, but it escalates quickly and spatters of blood fleck the floor and their uniforms and Cato's face. The two are separated, and one of the Peacekeepers urges the rest of them back on to whatever they had been doing.

"There's nothing to see here." He says. They all perceive it to be a lie.

That's how Clove finds him. Cato stand in a hallway, solitary, obscured by the dim light, holding his head back to stop a flow of blood. She was called for a warning, and instead finds a mess. It's tempting to slap him, but she keeps her cool, taking a deep breath before speaking.

"What did they send you out for?" She feels like a scandalized school-ma'am, it's ridiculous. Cato is far from scorned, giving her this smirk that matches the one from the year previous, but it haunted. His eyes are that little bit deader. He's ruined that little bit more.

"Striking a fellow asshole." He grins, showing teeth that are yellow with the plasma of blood. She feels a bit nauseous at the sight, which is odd, because Clove is usually far from squeamish. Arms akimbo, she raises an eyebrow.

"How long have you wanted to say that?"

It makes Cato laugh. "Most of the afternoon, yeah." He removes the tissue from his nose, all sodden with blood, and takes in a deep breath of cold air. Clove seems so tiny after a day of watching tall Careers wield maces and axes. She looks sweet and virtuous, in another white gown, her makuep neutral instead of these high brows and dramatic lowlights.

"Which one of your 'fellow assholes' did you abuse?" She tries it in a playful tone, but her worry is obvious. It's nature, she cannot help but care for Peeta, even after facing up to him not wanting her. Peeta's still a friend, he's still the same boy that told her stories and reassured her at midnight, even if he's against Cato. Even if he'll probably die. Cato senses the worry. He grits his teeth.

"Don't worry," He grinds out, folding his arms. "Your Loverboy is all good and pretty."

Clove answers him with a hard face, as if it pains her to speak. "He's not my lover." but then she realizes that she's taken the bait and tries to look much calmer, smoothing out the creases in her voice. "That's not what I meant." She tells him. "You're supposed to be making alliances."

Scoffing, Cato shrugs. "What for?" he sets his eyes on hers, unpleasant, cruel. Clove isn't allowing him to scare her, she stared back with just as much intensity. "So that you feel a little better about checking out the competition? Is that it, Clove?" He takes a step closer and leans down so he's speaking right at her. "So you can sleep at night?"

Clove lifts a hand to slap him, but she stops herself, hand raised, breathless. It terrifies her that she might cry, she might actually let Cato win and weep, all pathetic and unstable, and so she bites her lip and straightens, trying to remain objective. "So you won't die." Her voice is quiet.

"What was that?" Cato asks, unkindly, blood starting to form on his upper lip.

"So you won't die!" Clove feels herself fly off the handle before she can keep herself calm. The heat spreads from her words to her face and she must be beet red at this point. "So I don't have to watch you get murdered!"

Cato swallows, audibly. "Oh." He says, taking a step back, visible winded.

Out of breath, Clove pushes the hair out of her face and takes a few deep breaths. "Yes, oh." She sighs. "Now get back in there and train for something or I'll kill you here for nothing," Cato wipes the blood off of his face and bend down a little, coming back to eye-level with Clove and smiling, lukewarm.

"Is that a promise?"

Clove draws across her chest with a practiced finger. "Cross my heart, darling."

She does not kiss him off.

Back Cato goes, down the darkening, close-walled corridors, towards the brighter lights, to the sound of voices. Two Avoxes, and a dull Peacekeeper watch him, nodding as he slips through the door, and into the colder air of the Training centre. For the most part, his physical bleeding has stopped, but Cato can feel bruises forming on his pride. Silence falls and a few stop what they're doing to stare. The man from Seven has yet to return, with slightly more grievous injuries, but nothing that will prevent wither of them getting even in the arena.

One such pair of eyes are familiar. Cato follows them; face hard, catching Peeta, who looks far too small and unimportant. His face is white and the moment Cato looks at him, he freezes, as if guilty. It makes Cato wonder if they boy knows, if he sense where Clove's eyes or words have been.

Peeta turns quickly, back to whatever he's doing, and the sound of conversation picks up again.

One conversation in particular has spread like wildfire through the groups of tributes that have banded together. Sponsors.

Pretty much all of them, with Peeta, Irving, and two others being the exception, have been in the Games before, and most of them have been helped to victory by the life-giving sight of a small silver parachute descending from the artificial heavens of the arena's sky. Some of them, at their time, had managed to boast their skill or looks or odds of winning in order to gain Sponsors. Few of them can do that now. Peeta can hear them whispering, casting looks around the room at one in particular that everybody wants to be allies with. It's rare that a Mentor has a 'special relationship' with their tribute. It's even rarer that they're in love. And that makes Cato's chances of a 'gift from the gods' a hell of a lot higher.

They all saw Clove yesterday, after the tribute parade, and even in the Games. Ruthless and cunning, knows how to get exactly what she wants if the cause is worthwhile. What could be more worthwhile than the pursuit of bringing Cato home alive to help her raise a child?

(Although, Peeta knows just as well as Cato, that Clove does not need a man. She's good enough on her own; she works well without people, even when she doesn't have to. He never fancies himself as needed, Peeta Knows His Place, at least. Clove doesn't need him just as she doesn't need Cato, but she loves before she can help herself.)

Peeta has no idea where he stands with sponsors. The parade was enough, it seemed, to help everybody forget about his reaction to being reaped, and now he's in no danger of being a favourite or a laughing stock. Has Cinna done enough to buy him favour?

It becomes apparent to all of them, as they watch the boy with the sword, that Cato is now the ally to have, and the one to kill. He's strong and quick and skilled, but best of all; he has Clove.

They all recognize a man who can acquire things.

The first day ends with a small group of Careers banded together. Peeta remains with District 3, having found Beetee to be more than useful and a practical ally. They can talk to eachother. Not always about when the air leaves the room, but it's nice. It has been so long since Peeta was spoken to as a person, and not a Surplus. Especially with Cinna. Beetee and Wiress, her name is, are great people, and it's not that Peeta values them any less. But he isn't exactly ready to come to terms with the fact that they will have to kill him, and he will have to kill them, if it comes down to it. There are no real alliances in the Games, because there is only one winner.

He's dog-tired from all of it when he comes up to floor twelve, having stayed away from weapon and weights all day, and avoided Cato's gaze as best he could. Peeta doesn't want something to eat; he just wants some air, that isn't recycled or stuffy. A walk where normality doesn't seem strived for. The Games have tainted everything, making his love afraid of this invincible summer.

When he arrives, the place is quiet. An Avox stands, solitary, by the door. Peeta resents the slave trade of the Capitol. Nobody else even notices.

"Peeta!" Effie calls to hi from the parlour, her voice trilling with excitement. "Do sit down." Her eyes are a bright blue. "Will Irving be joining us?"

Not a second later, his District partner appears, looking less tried, and less worried. She should be, it's not as f Cato will make any extra effort to murder her. "I will, yes." She says. It's nice to hear a voice that isn't so affected.. The accents between Districts change, but subtly, enough that nobody notices too much, anyway. Peeta does. He clings to scrap of home, because he misses it.

In the parlour, they have sweets and wines and television. It makes Peeta head swim. "I'm going to get some air," Peeta says. His face is white and his eyes are dark with fatigue. It's not the training itself: Peeta has avoided all strength and cardio, so it isn't that kind of tired,, but more emotionally.

How is he supposed to feel? Cato Is set to kill him, and after rejecting Clove's kiss, she's likely to be encouraging her husband, giving him pointers and the rest, Jesus Christ. Peeta knows he's going to die, too, which make the world very difficult to process. His apathy overwhelms him: there's no joy in the futile little things when he can count his weeks left on one hand,

Quickly, Peeta changes his clothes, into some more black, mourning himself somewhat, before heading up to the roof. It's not the quiet he seeks, because he knows he's not going to find it up there, but the air. Wind whistling in his ears, cold and brisk, like a rush of blood to the head. And it's not that he wants to be alone, either, it's just that he would rather solace than have Effie chatting animatedly for half an hour about the fashion of putting a damn collar on another human being because they're a Surplus.

He heads up in silence and steps out, into the wind, breathing deep lungfuls of air. When his eyes refocus to the pinpricks of neon light, he realizes he isn't alone, and that another blonde, much taller, much more obnoxious. The other half-turns, eyes on the view in front of him, and sighs.

"You remember when we first came up here?" He says, clearly speaking to another in his own head, not realising that it's Peeta behind him, backpedalling slowly, but also fighting that urge, that small tug to listen. "I told you I wanted to live somewhere up high and you said to me-"

Cato laughs. "You said that the view was great but the fall was spectacular." He grins. "I thought you were gonna push me, Clove. I thought-" He turns, seeing Peeta, and then shuts down completely. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted some air," Peeta says, determined not to be intimidated by Cato. He takes a few steps forward and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

"Oh, I see. " Cato murmurs, and then doubles back until he's behind Peeta, staring out across the lights, ready to shove him off the edge of the roof and be done with all of the drama. It might make his and Clove's lives easier, to be really honest, and Peeta knows that. He's not disagreeing. He thinks, go ahead, he's dead anyway. "You wanted some air, just like you only wanted to talk to Clove-"

"You should trust your wife." Peeta says steadfastly. He regrets it immediately as Cato grabs him by the scruff of the collar, with an inhuman strength, and drags him towards the edge.

"And you should give me one good reason not to throw you off of this goddamned building, Surplus." The threat isn't lost on Peeta as his toes cling and scape against the ground, whilst the rest of him hangs, too-limply, over the drop. That won't be an instant death like what he prays for. That will be slow, and agonising. There's no guarantee Cato will have the good will to snap his neck before the drop. "Now what did you say?"

"You should-" Peeta whimpers. "You should trust your wife!"

"Why would I do that?" Cato drawls, choosing his words carefully, as if he's got all the time in the world to be lazy.

It's then Peeta knows he has to lie. "I tried-…" His feet batter wildly, but Cato keeps him in place with an enormous hand. "I tried to kiss her, again –the other night-"

"You did what?" Cato doesn't register he lie. He hears the words and takes them on face value, thankfully.

"She didn't want me," Peeta squeaks out. His voice is pathetic. It takes a few seconds for the words to take hold, and then Cato, still untrusting, swings Peeta back onto the ground and lets him up.

"She didn't want you?" The older boy parrots. Peeta nods, weakly, still lying. "In that case," Cato crouches for a second and pats his cheek. "You get to live bit longer, Loverboy."

With that Cato departs. He loves to in. He loves to have Clove's affections, and he loved to flap the unflappable Surplus.

For a man that can acquire things, though, he often cannot find the truth.


	21. Act 5, Scene 1

Peeta Mellark is exactly sixteeb years and three months and twenty-six days and nine hours when he's held by the collar over the magnificent drop off of the Capitol tribute accommodation block. His feet batter wildly, but scrape no purchase. The hand stuffed in his collar remains clasped into the fabric. His breath leaves him and something else fills the space under is lungs, like the embers of a fire, making each of his breaths feel like choking on smoke.

In the few seconds that he's held, above the infinite drop, feeling weightless, but heavy, too, this sudden rush of peace overwhelms him. Peeta has already accepted that he will die, soon, and it will not be neat or kind or survivable, as the last thing in life always seems not to be. He thinks about Clove, and the accusations surrounding her. He thinks of his crime of passion, and how the real crime is the passion being ignored, how the water is much too bitter now, but how it is by no means the last any of them will drink.

While he is held, having this epiphany, Cato is the one holding him. He does not think about the water, or of his own, imminent fate, but instead, of that piano, sitting pretty but having nobody to touch it, just like Clove, and how in recent days, somebody _has_ been touching it, playing it, making it sing. God's Bread, the thought makes him furious. Cato thinks about Clove, sitting downstairs, and how she had asked for honey in her tea. Why wasn't sugar enough?

He does not kill Peeta Mellark. Instead, he chose to believe him. It is the first merciful thing Cato has ever truly done, and it will certainly not be the last.

(An unpleasant thought: Cato does not deserve to die the way he does: slaughter'd youth, lips that have more to kiss and eyes that have such to see, and years still left. Death's pale flag does not advance over his features, nor is he kept in darkness to be Death's paramour.

He doesn't deserve to die the way he does. Even if he remains beautiful because of it. )

Truth be told, even though he exercises mercy, and allows Peeta his life, Cato has killed before, he has been keeping Death busy for time. It has led to his victory, to win after win, and as we all know, Cato loves to win. But, just as such, he has already gone and celebrated the win. The universe is quick to get even. See, Cato is a big believer in justice; he's a big believer in 'getting even'. Just as he will even the score with Peeta, life will even the score with him.

For a very long time after Cato has departed, the Surplus, the boy with the bread remains, out of breath, but full of realisation, sitting on the roof. He stares out at the Capitol, wondering how many have seen, and knowing that it's unlikely, at best. It's funny that their affections are so fickle, and extreme. Would it were that they have no sympathy for the destitute, and the starving, but trip over themselves for Peeta, all because he is a canary. All because he caught their attention.

Peeta sighs. Birds aren't meant to be caged. They aren't supposed to be murdered, systematically, with people watching and cheering and crying. As he leaves, he throws a single thought over his shoulder, in the darkness and quiet of the night. Not for Clove, who he has saved and defended, who has entered her darkness to speak in angel wings. Not to her.

Peeta thinks, 'you scared me, Cato'.

You scared me.

That night, Peeta cannot sleep, because of the awful heat, and rises. It must be midnight, or much later, he doesn't know. There's no sense of routine or time here. The citizens party and enjoy the festivities as if they have never had anywhere to be or any tasks to do, it's terrifying.

He pulls on a shirt and wanders out into the parlour, where a magnificent feast of fruits and berries are arranged. He hasn't seen so much in years, since there was a particularly fruitful harvest sent in around wintertime when Peeta was much younger. He hasn't had real butter since being a child. But he isn't hungry. Eating it would remind him of home, where they cannot afford luxuries, even if they have been handed a death sentence all stuck with wreath and gold.

Carefully, Peeta takes an empty bowl and selects blackberries, and blueberries and raspberries, and all manner of other, caring not how they taste, for he'll not eat them. Instead, he clears space on the wall above where they've had him sleep, and Peeta thinks. He considers all of the thoughts in his head, or Clove, and Cato, of the arena and of the ropes he can tie. He thinks of Caesar Flickerman's midnight blue suit, and of Cinna's canary-yellow costume. He thinks about Beetee's pathology, about the oxygen leaving the room.

Peeta crushes a blackberry against the white wall, seeing the dark juice running thick. With two fingers, he smudges the juice into a long, fine strip, shaping it. The result is beautiful, and before he can help himself, he takes another, and another. The outline is finished within a few minutes.

The rest are colour, and he takes his time, bleeding the juices, smoothing over the cracks, and making sure it doesn't run too much. Peeta must be there for a good forty minutes, fretting over the thing, until he can no longer bear to be in such a room, and leaves, heading straight for the roof.

On the wall above the bed depicts a colourful audience of Capitol citizens, with their ballads and their lip-mouths and their strange fashions. At the head of their crowd is a small, crude, Caser Flickerman. All of them are singing, little semiquavers floating above their heads. At the front, conducting the orchestra, with wild hand gestures and the loudest, boldest notes of all, is President Snow. The piece is simply captioned _'not the president, the conductor'_.

All of it, every last thing here makes him sick, from the ornamented throw-pillows to the cheap, meaningless ballads and the surplus of food, the surplus of everything and the Surpluses, too, collared, bruised, robbed of their humanities to serve those who are otherwise inhuman and inhumane. It makes him want to scream, or to cry, but his body is dehydrated and they already have a taste for his blood.

He feels dizzy suddenly, not from hunger or dehydration, but something else altogether.

He needs air. Air and sound and the wind to whistle a tune in his ears, to make him feel free and safe and real, above all things. Peeta doesn't want to spend his last days unhappy. He doesn't want to stay here, in this room, unsure of how much he is hallucinating. The air here is stale, and it's hot, too hot. Peeta leaves the fruit on the table, and the artwork staining the bedroom wall. Shuffling in dark red, he makes it to the elevator, and rides all the way to fresh air, to feeling alive again.

Even for a while.

It's nice and warm up on the roof. The city is muted up here, but still audible, and Peeta perches, sitting, taking in the sights. After a day in the Training Centre, he is tried, not just emotionally, but also physically fatigued. He thinks he'll just rest his eyes, it will just take a minute, and nobody will mind, or be any the wiser anyway. It will soothe the ringing in his ears and the ache in his eyes and the constant reminder that he'll no longer look to like, or even live.

So, Peeta sleeps.

_Noise tears through Peeta. He picks is eyes from the dirtied grey of the floor. Lush, royal blue ropes circle the ring, keep him inside. Behind them, he can see a mass of black and knives and teeth, then hungry crowds, seeking worthier prey, ready to devour Peeta in one sitting. It's cold. When his eyes focus, he can see stray hairs escaping from the ropes, every fine detail, and then he realises that in the obscure darkness of the other corner, he has a competitor. And they love him. __  
__  
In the midst of all of this chaos, Peeta looks down at his own hands. There are no gloves. His only protection leaves him shivering, a pair of plain white shorts, sitting just above the knee and a dusty pair of plimsolls. Nobody cheers for him. Nobody would dare. __  
__  
Something is lowered into the middle of the ring, glowing in the cold air of the ring, with the noise of human traffic, of their excited screams and ravenous growls. Claudius Templesmith seems to appear from nowhere, dolled up in stripes, sin-black like Clove's eyes and a white that would make bleach blush. The crowd falls silent, or at least quieter, hearing his voice crisp above the chaos, imposing, terrifying. __  
__  
"Ladies and gentlemen." He sounds as if he is laughing, as if it is all one big game. "I present, for your pleasure-" The man gives Peeta a sideways, dissatisfied glance as if he is unsubstantial as food for shells and guns, or for a beating. Peeta remains steadfast, ceases his shaking and looking straight on in defiance. None sympathise. __  
__  
"From District Twelve, the Surplus, Peeta Mellark." __  
__  
It acts as an incendiary, and the fire of foul spreads through them. The hungry lot begin to hiss and boo and call out to him, the disgusting, meagre Surplus, the worthless and cold-footed swine from nowhere, who has no business gazing upon their faces, and existing where they might be, too. __A white-hot light prompts Peeta to step forward, stumbling a little, staring at Claudius Templesmith for some kind of help, but he is completely closed to such a boy. __  
__  
__He__ turns away. __  
__  
__"And his opponent, our very own, beloved-" They fall silent in childlike anticipation, as if they are trying desperately to contain themselves. "All the way room the Capitol, Caesar Flickerman." __  
__  
They just explode. The numbers seem to swell, people pressing their faces against the ropes, tripping over one another to get a glimpse at the man himself. To fit the theme of this year's Quarter Quell, his robe, shorts and wig are a sparkling irish green, glistening like morning dew. Lit with a thousand light bulbs that Peeta cannot distinguish. __  
__  
When Caesar lifts his hood, and then discards the robe completely, Peeta can see faint, telltale lines from where the Capitol have altered him, shifted bits here and bleached parts there. His face is consumptively pale. The eyes tell of the age, of this false generosity and duplicity he displays every year, to each tribute that ends up dead, just another meal for the cannon to call them to. It's not obvious: Peeta can only tell because they are close, staring down eachother trying to swallow the word opponent. __  
__  
Claudius smiles. "Alright, folks." His voice is so clear. "Round 1, let the Games begin." __  
__  
Peeta doesn't even wait. __  
__  
However, it's Cae__sar that throws the first punch__, stronger than he might look, catching Peeta across the cheek and slugging him so hard that the Surplus collapses onto his knees, feeling hot blood pool in a bruised crack forming on the skin there. It winds him, and for a second, the crowd fall silent, pleased, but shocked, too. But they don't own him, they will not have this victory, and he climbs back up to the top of his dirty plimsolls, shaking it off, never giving it more than a frowning hour. __  
__  
They start for real, with another flurry of hits against the side of his face before Peeta can react, and then he does, right foot forward, putting whatever weight he can find into a jab to the jawline. The older man staggers backwards, the ageing skin holding up worse, tender and inflaming almost instantly. It doesn't take long before they're back at it. __  
__  
Peeta is fast, but he's out of practise, and naïve. __He delivers a brutal clout to the solar plexus, and it buys him a few seconds before the host straightens and returns the favour with a savage uppercut that causes Peeta to cry out, spitting out blood onto the artificial rubber. The audience eat up every single inch they budge, crying out for the Capitol, for their structure and their Games, baying for Peeta's blood, for the shame of a Surplus. __  
__  
As soon as Peeta focuses again, he receives a hit so hard between the eyes that his vision is knocked out of focus and he flops back onto the taught ring ropes, signalling the need for a reprieve, a minute, a rest. __  
__  
"Peeta!" They scream. He holds up a hand, and waves it. __  
__  
"Please," He whimpers. "A minute, please." __  
__  
"Peeta!" Their cries are hungry and Peeta tried to stand himself up against the ropes. __  
__  
"I need to breathe." __  
__  
_His eyes snap open.

"Peeta?"

Of all the things, Peeta does not expect to see Clove, shivering in the night that has cooled considerably. She shivers in white, pulling her nightgown around her arms with one hand and shaking him with the other. It's funny how he finds himself staring at her, disoriented and sick with pallor but no longer dizzy. He feels real enough. He feels alive enough.

"Sorry," He says, still-asleep. The temperature drop acts as a physical shock, and he manages to rouse himself enough to sit up, freeing space along for Clove to sit down next to him. It's not particularly comfortable, but it certainly beats standing up. She's gracious enough, folding her hands into her lap, as if nervous.

"I really am sorry." Peeta mumbles, dipping his head, feeling the shame spread like a forest fire and choke the canary they all want him to be. If there was ever a time for singing, it has passed, and now it's just the words that matter, besides Clove, bracing against the merciless winds that knife them. That's why Peeta chooses his words carefully: if he's not much left, he doesn't want to waste it.

Clove laughs. "For what?" But she knows.

Neutral thought gives Peeta pause. "Well, I've got all night. There's time to sleep now I'm going to die-"

Her ears are sharp, and her face goes red. She shakes her head furiously. "No," Clove whispers. "No, Peeta, that isn't right,"

He gives a queer little laugh. "I'm just joking," he lies.

"Yeah, well." Clove sighs. She watches the diamond of her wedding ring dance in the light, and how it shines, so beautiful, gold, and Peeta' eyes are mere silver. "Joking bitterly." That's what she says. What she means is that she knows and she's sorry too, Jesus Christ, she wants to hold onto him, her canary, her Surplus and baker and pianist and storyteller until they are both old and good and ready. There's no time left to be lazy, and she thought there would be, she thought they would see the children bloom from babies into flowers in their eyes.

"Can I-.." Clove sucks in a breath. "Can I ask you a question?"

It's a warning if Peeta did ever see one, but he's not up to fighting, the wind got knocked out of him by an apparition and a host of individual sins. The devil is on his back tonight, but the way Clove is looking at him, all innocence for a murderer, makes him believe that he can shake it away. She has disarmed him, body and soul, and any attempts at refusing her would be pointless. He gives her a nod.

"Why wasn't I enough?" She asks, her voice pained. For a second, Clove tries to smile through the obvious pain, but it does no good and her resolve shatters.

"What-?" Peeta doesn't get it, so she enumerates.

"Why wasn't I enough for Cato?" She near-sobs. Her eyes fix on Peeta, fiercely. "Why wasn't I enough for you?"

Peeta falters. "No…" He begins, uncertainly. "No, Clove, it wasn't you." His hand is shaking, and he's uncomfortable when he lowers it around her, fixing them both in a one-armed hug. Her skin is cold, and Peeta is warm, he's inviting, this little slice of haven above the crowds. It hurts her, god damn, Clove feels as if she's bleeding, but it means she's still alive.

Peeta breathes deep and places a kiss on her temple. "It's not you, Clove. You're more than enough."

She clears her throat, feeling anger rise. "Then why didn't you want me?" She manages to get out. "Why did Cato sleep with other women?" The tension is enough to make Peeta feel more than just punchdrunk, and he grasps at words that disappear and trick him. It baffles him, all of these questions, all of this, and it's too much, too soon.

"Ask _him_, " Peeta tries, weakly. He can't exactly answer on behalf of the Career, it's not his place. Clove stiffens. She has reached down deep inside of her to show Peeta her wound, a shard of glass buried in her back, and he has essentially ignored it, refused to help her.

"I see." She says, coldly. Peeta knows right away that he has done wrong.

"Clove-" He begins, striving for a breezy tone. She rolls her eyes.

"Don't." And then, trying to calm them both, and forget that she had ever emotionally undressed at all, Clove reaches into one pocket, in the side of her gown, and pulls out a handful of small, white discs, a host of them. Without any regard for custom, or culture, she places two on her tongue and eats. "Hungry?" She asks, too casually. Peeta laughs, genuinely amused.

"Sure," He says, holding out a hand. "Where'd you get those?"

She shrugs. "There was an altar a few rooms over."

"You stole these from the chapel?" Peeta laughs again, not sure what to believe.

Clove smiles. "You could say that, yeah. They're good, though." He watches her swallow her two and place another few discs of her tongue, the wafers dissolving before she has time to bite, and instead chews contentedly, nodding. Clove waves a hand. "Go ahead. Nobody's going to arrest you."

"It's a communion wafer," Peeta frowns, studying the thing lying flat in his hand. "As in the Eucharist."

Clove's face remains blank. "As in what?"

Peeta flounders for words. "The Eucharist. The religious custom." But she genuinely has no idea. Neither 12 or 2 are very religious Districts, but at the very least, Peeta is aware, and he knows of the practises. "Are you trying to save my soul?"

Clove laughs. "You're mad."

"No!" Peeta joins her tone, tightening his arm around her. "I'm serious, that's the Eucharist. Are you trying to save my soul?"

Clove coughs, settling down. "You're good, Peeta. I don't want you to leave me,"

He strokes her arm. "You're good, too, Clove. I hate to die."

Right there, Clove knows she could do it: she could lean over and kiss Peeta, tae his lips like she did once and have him kiss back, full of longing and want, full of life but for now. It would only take a few seconds, and then they would be touching, so tenderly and honestly, more than Peeta had given her for weeks. His sin is warm and it reminds her, the heat makes her mad with knowing that all it would take is a few centimetres to her right, and up a bit, locking eyes with Peeta and staring at the oceanic cobalt of his blues.

And Peeta knows that, too. He knows that look in her eyes and can feel her skin, and for a second he closes his eyes and pretends, just for a second, focuses on everything else, and not the painting on his bedroom wall or the other tributes sleeping below or the cries from the audience below. He thinks none of going ten rounds with Caesar Flickerman or even the feeling of his hand being crushed completely by Cato in a fit of rage.

The world melts away, and becomes irrelevant.

"I don't want to kiss you, Clove." Peeta says at last, pained and quiet but honest, at the very least. She pulls back, a bit ashamed, and pushes the hair out of her face.

"That was forward of you," She notes. Peeta leans back on his hands and sighs.

"It's the end of the world. I thought I should confess my sins," Peeta swallows. Clove takes a long, hard look at him and then shake her head.

"Who do you love, Peeta?"

He cannot say.


	22. Act 5, Scene 2

_It's the end of the world. I thought I should confess my sins._

Peeta can taste the communion wafer between his teeth and the eyes of his congregation upon him. The sky above them is open, making it appear that God, and Clove, and the whole of Panem hangs on his response. It's her eyes that even through murder still remain so divine and innocent. Clove is perched in such a way, the roof lights bleaching her hair into gold and her arms leant behind her, she looks like a stain-glass angel.

Who does Peeta love?

This thought, once more, gives him pause. There are, in themselves, four kinds of love. Peeta could not put one above the other of importance. The intensity of what he feels is always fervent and passionate and consuming. He cannot say he loved Katniss in the way he loves another.

The angel, Clove, sighs.

"Who do you love?" She asks again. "Because it isn't me, is it? You-" Her voice breaks, and she covers her eyes, as if trying to master the tears that have actually broken free. She has not felt so much for ending lives, and yet, here she is, sobbing to her Surplus, a boy of sixteen. One who shouldn't matter, but does. "You let me think for so long-.."

Peeta cannot bear to watch her cry. He tells her what she wants to hear. "I do love you, Clove," Is what comes out, after prompting. It works none, she shoves him back, fiercely, spitting like an angry feline.

"Don't you lie to me!" Her shrieks are not dissimilar to when she had cried all so long ago, cried out in desperation for Cato, and only Cato. He was the only one comfort to her when Death winked coyly, and beckoned a hand. "Cato killed both tributes from 12 last year, and I could have him kill you, too!" As empty as the threat is, what wounds Peeta, to the point of a physical ache, is the way she talks so flippantly about Katniss and her death as if it matters none. Nobody sang her to sleep on a bed of flowers. Nobody cared to mention her name.

"Or he in on this, too?" She staggers backwards, shaking her head. "I bet you laugh about me together. I bet he goes crazy thinking about the time he could have-"

Peeta closes his eyes. "Please," He manages. "I don't want to fight you." In his desperation, the truth finds its way out. "You're my friend."

She whirls on him, advancing, raising her arm to strike him. Peeta thinks she might exercise restraint because it's cold and she's pregnant and she only uses her hands to hit Cato, usually. Some special treatment reserved only for relationships that are fuelled by a slow-burning resentment. He freezes up when she pulls back, and at long last, goes for him.

Two massive hands grab her, and Clove is spun around. She deteriorates to tears almost immediately.

Like some ghost, or bad memory, or the corpse of a relative nobody really wants to mention, the sight of Cato is as unprecedented as it is dangerous. The situation falls to nothingness immediately. Peeta scuttles back, away, knowing that not for one second will the victor have temerity enough to blame Clove, even though she asks, even though she has openly betrayed his heart tonight. Cato watches Peeta carefully, passive and undecided, as if in a trance. The only noise is crying.

"Don't cry," Cato's patience has been worn enough. He sounds, no longer distracted, but angry, too. There is a dangerous, rising tension in his throat, and now his arms are bent at the elbow. The man has a temper, and it will not take much prompting, as Peeta well knows, for him to snap like a cheap rubber band.

Clove continues to weep, finally managing to look at him. She goes to speak, and Peeta can read her lips enough that she's trying to say 'I'm sorry'. It would seem Cato doesn't want to hear it. Instead, he grabs Clove by the arms and gives her a good shaking. "Stop crying," She doesn't listen to him, again, the foolish girl. She turns to Peeta, looking for something, anything, and he looks away ashamedly.

Tearing herself from his grasp, Clove wipes at her eye and takes a few steps backwards, further towards the edge. She turns, admiring the view, leaning a little too close, and the Capitol citizens seem to hold their tongues long enough. Peeta takes two small steps forwards. Cato takes two small steps back.

"Clove-" The boy begins, calm. She turns her face, still ruddy and rouge with tears. She doesn't understand that he means to test her.

"What do you care if I jump?" She hisses, pathetically. "What do either of you care?"

Cato goes to move, but Peeta shoots him a look. He satisfies his paranoia and terrified lobe by calling to her, where she stands on the edge. "Don't move," He begs her. "_Please_." The tender quality in his voice is a rare one; Peeta has never seen heard anything of the sort come from Cato before, usually so brutish and snarky and distant. "Get away from the edge,"

Peeta studies Clove carefully before saying. "Jump." Cato takes a few steps forward, freezing when she turns to look at them. The Surplus shrugs. "If you're so eager to end it,"

She looks afraid.

"What about Cato?" His words are bold and intrusive. They cause Clove to seize up and stare at her husband, who looks more human and afraid than he has been in so long. The blood isn't physical but it's there, Cato is holding himself together by whatever trust or faith he has in Peeta. And Peeta is only guessing, here. He's praying she can be swayed.

"What _about_ Cato?" She asks, wiping at her eyes. Peeta clears his throat, trying to hide his nerves. It's painful, because he really does care for Clove, deeply, and he values all of her so very much. To have her jump, and then to die, aware of his own abject loneliness and hopelessness is too much to consider.

"What about getting him Sponsors, to help him win? What about getting him home?" Peeta knows he might cry. Jesus, he's aware that he could fall apart and look like a fool. The words might just be enough, he isn't sure. There's no telling if she really will jump, or if it's just the threat the will satisfy Clove. His eyes dangerously glistening, Peeta forces himself, against every natural instinct, to turn away from Clove, and Cato alike, to take a few steps toward the door. It's so hard, to seem emotionless, uncaring and hard, when his heart sings for her, but he fears it's his only option.

"Peeta-…" Clove breathes, her body facing away from the drop for the first time since she walked up to the edge. She takes a small step towards Peeta, and it serves as strength enough to keep him cold.

"Forget it," He says, to betray his heart. "You're nothing but talk,"

And Peeta manages to make himself leave.

The moment he's out of sight, Clove collapses into another round of tears, and it splits Cato apart. He cares not for testing her, but instead goes completely slack, staggering over to her and putting his arms around her, dragging her to the safety of middle-ground. He does not dare cry. The gladness overwhelms him too fast, and something like a laugh escapes from his throat.

"You silly bitch," He says, striving for normalcy, trying to hide his happiness, and to the love he left it pressed between the keys of their piano. "I thought you were going to jump. You scared me."

Clove trembles. "Why were you scared?"

He drops his head into her neck and breathes her in, making sure she's still all there, that this isn't some awful hallucination but feasible enough that he can grasp he and hold her and protect her. At least when he's not in the arena. For now, he is her keeper, and protector. He will strive to keep her happy so long as he till can. It's hard to reduce to words why Cato felt fear: there are so many extraneous factors.

"I don't want to lose you," He settles for. And then, he tries to justify it. "You know I love you, _Clover_," It prompts her to ask what she has wanted to for so long. Not to Peeta, the boy might be wise and gracious, he might have the words, but he certainly doesn't have the answer she needs. Only Cato has that, even if it terrifies her to no end.

"Then why-…" She stares at the city below her, and of the drop. All she can think of is that stupid, stupid verse. '_Apollo stood on the high cliff'_ over and over. She's not sure which she is yet: Apollo, or the others. She doesn't feel like a god right now. She feels like a fool "Why wasn't I enough for you?"

Cato swallows.

All of the blood drains from his face and the air in his lungs feels heavy, like water. Words and answers are born in his heart only to turn to dust on his tongue, and then die before they can reach his lips, rendering him useless and without a riposte. He needs one, though, above all else he knows. It isn't fair to be blasé bout something that hurts her, for whatever reason, now.

"It wasn't you that wasn't enough," He says, to begin with. It is in no way her fault at all.

Clove shakes her head. "You don't have to lie to me," She says, bitterly. It prompts Cato to grab for her again.

"_Listen_," He insists, with desperation. "I was afraid, okay? After the Games, it all happened fast." He fumbles for what to say. "And I couldn't –y'know –I couldn't do anything normally. Like before." The words fail him, but the message does not. Clove tries to follow. She needs her answer. She needs assurance, that above all things, she hasn't failed him.

"Those girls-" He sighs, shaking his head. "They didn't treat me like some Capitol mummer. It was like…" Cato isn't sure how to articulate it. He looks at Clove, his mind working away furiously to help her, and them both, understand. "It was like before,"

Clove whimpers. "What does that mean? Before?"

Cato takes a deep breath in. "It wasn't _you_, Clove. I was only a kid. I just wanted to feel normal." It's as if she understands too much, because panic sets in on Clove and she looks to where Peeta had once stood before sitting up, needing air. She looks at Cato, and in his eyes, the coldness of them softened, his guard lowered, she can tell two awful things. The first is that he had been listening. _The second is that he will die. _

She takes in a breath and steadies herself for the answer. "Were you listening?" she asks him. "I mean, to me and Peeta, before you stepped in?"

Cato drops his eyes. "A little," It scares her worse than anything.

"Did you hear-"

"I heard enough," Cato says, unnervingly calm. He draws himself to standing, and helps her, too. There is no malice or anger, or even resentment clear in his actions, or eyes, or words,, and Clove is mostly relieved. She's, to the largest extent, overwhelms that he isn't seeing red, and killing anybody. But a small part of her is almost disappointed. At least when Cato acts violent and jealous, it shows that he cares.

Maybe he doesn't care. Or maybe he's accepted his fate. It's hard to tell.

He takes her downstairs, back to their floor. Instead of going back to bed, Clove follows him into the kitchenette and sits up on one of the countertops while he makes a cold drink of something strong. She doesn't drink it, but watches instead, still robbed of her words, unable to consolidate all of her fears and defences and justifications into any actual words, let alone a whole sentence. Thankfully, he's kind; he lets her be in silence. In fact, Clove speaks first because she cannot have him saying none either way when he knows what he does.

"When the gong sounds, will you go?" It's the first thing she thinks to say. Cato searches her face.

"Go where?"

"The Cornucopia," She's not a very good mentor. Clove deeply resents the Games, having to watch or think about them or have them exist. And now they have swept in from nowhere, taking Cato and Peeta in their midst, leaving clove all alone and terrified. Cato looks down at his glass, and then at Clove.

"I don't want to kill anybody," He says, because he doesn't. Clove swallows.

"You'll have to," She tells him. Cato grits his teeth.

"Maybe not,"

"You will have to," She repeats herself, only serving to make him angrier.

"I know!" He bursts out, suddenly, his face white. It scares Clove something awful, and she jumps back, flinching, not feeling very brave at all. It's something unexplainable, to take a life. She would know, because she's taken more than one, and because it haunts her, sometimes. Often. Always. Neither have been the same. "I know that." Cato sighs. "It's just-"

Recognising a kindred spirit, Clove hooks an arm around his neck, and brings him in to her. Her pathology mirrors his. They meet at the broken places. "You still hear them, don't you?" At her knowing words, he nods, and is very surprised when Clove, cold, accurate, murderous Clove, drops her lips and kisses him, with this ache that cannot be imitated or faked. This lust that says she does want him. When she pulls away for air, he is dully awed.

"It's not fair," Cato mumbles, weakly.

"I know," She breathes to him. "I know, it's wrong, and it hurts," One of her hands strokes his shoulder. "But it'll pass." The assurance is meant with kindness. "It's not February anymore, Cato, we have to get older. You have to come home."

Home. Jesus, how many definitions can just one word have? They're far from home right now, physically, emotionally, and in all sorts of other ways. Is home the life they enjoy back in 2? Or is it some kind of callous, mutual hatred that keeps them married? Because Cato hasn't changed on that front. He's waiting for Clove to find her way back, and he knows she will. Peeta, a Surplus, is like the carnival blowing in from 12, all novelty and new. But Cato is home, and people always come home. Eventually, anyway.

"If you get to a sword, you'll be fine," Clove tells him, all distant, absorbed by memories too unspeakable to try and explain. "Stick with the Career pack." He thinks of wining, of last year. That familiar sting of the tracker jacker, of those awful screams, and how none even turned for the blonde girl, they still haunt his waking moments. Taking Marvel's spear, and assuring himself, saying 'he's not going to come back and claim it'. The ghosts say otherwise.

"Then what?" Cato asks her. Because he really is lost. And what can Clove say but the truth? She tries to think about her ideal, her future without Peeta, and his stories and his words? It's dark, but even in the half-light, there's warm and hope. She stares at Cato, and all of her hopes and fears and neuroses are shot back at her.

"When you come home?" She buys herself a few minutes. Cato nods, silently. "Then we'll be safe," It is perhaps the only assurance she can give him that's mostly true. "We'll have the means to live wherever we want,"

That causes him to perk up a little. "Somewhere secluded," Cato says. He's always wanted something a bit more modest. When they were younger, and used to see the Victor's Village from across the town, Cato used to swear he'd never live there. 'Big, ugly houses for big, ugly people', that's what he called them.

"Wherever," Clove agrees, caressing the nape of his neck. "And I'll play the piano again,"

"I'd like that," Cato mumbles.

"You can learn, too, if you want," Clove thinks about all of these possibilities, trying to appease Cato most of all because she has looked at him, and kissed him, and she knows it. While he tastes as if he has bathed in honey, the scent of death is unmistakable. She holds it together. "And after a while, we'll have the baby,"

He looks up at her. It's as if he knows that he will not see it. "Tell me about her," Cato urges Clove. The fact that he says 'her', that he asks so desperately, makes it all terrifying and real. She looks at him, and grasps at something, anything, to answer him properly.

"She'll be beautiful," Clove promises him. "Beautiful and pale, and blonde," Her voice is trembling, just a little. "Look too much like you,"

"Yeah?" He smiles, stupidly. Clove wants nothing more than to get out of the room and out of the Games and the Capitol and out from under that smile, full of hope but bound to something else.

"Uh-huh," She takes in a sharp breath. "Long hair and blue eyes. And all of the boys will want her, but they'll be too scared of you," It's supposed to make him laugh, but he doesn't. The darkness outside has not heard a conversation like this and creeps into the room around the edges, afraid to touch the victors who are so far from victory. The irony isn't lost, it just isn't funny.

It's just killing time. Talking is a waste of breath, and looking at Cato is like a waste of dying, even if he's beautiful, even if he'll always look like this. Something has to change: clove knows that they are lucky in an infinite amount of ways, but she still feels unhappy. She still feels cheated that she's been given so much, only to face the prospect of having it taken away.

It's the last thing either of them say. Clove heads to the bedroom. She needs a dreamless sleep, a few hours where the Games aren't looming and the crowds aren't baying for blood, and the carousel of words (_Games-victor-love-Eucharist-areyoutryingtosavemysoul?-Cornucopia-hematadrosis_) will finally fall silent. She doesn't wait for Cato to join her, and slip his arms around her, like they're always loving and normal. It's a good thing, too, because Cato doesn't head to bed for a while.

He tries to keep the image of the small, pale girl, with yellow hair like wheat, and heads back up to the roof, where the noise of others clears his head. Cato isn't humble or anything, but he likes to listen, or half-listen. It makes his own thoughts sound quieter and less important. He needs that right now.

Clove is asleep by the time he finishes the drink, and then heads for the elevator. The ride is silent. He has nothing to say. That is, until he sees that Peeta has returned to the scene of the crime (of passion, now that the passion has been acknowledged). The boy is less composed, his breathing uneven, his eyes shut in pain.

The second he clocks Cato watching him, he sits right up.

Before they both can speak, Cato walks over to him slowly, as if somehow rehearsed. He crouches, because 's much taller, and scans over thee boy's face. His features are young and full of vitality, and there's something else, too, this softness. Cato can see why Clove had such an eye for him; Peeta is Cato's opposite in almost every way. The Surplus is obedient and kind and gracious. Cato has always made a poor facsimile of decorum.

So he slaps him. Across the face, fairly hard, and Peeta accepts it.

After a few seconds, the boy lifts a hand to his mouth, where a small trickle of blood has begun to form. He wipes it away and looks at Cato for some kind of answer.

"That it?" He asks. It's not a challenge, or said with any arrogance. Simply out, Peeta wants to know it he should need to brace himself again. Cato pulls away and stands up, folding his arms, walking to face the opposite direction. His voice is sour when he speaks.

"You sure better hope so, Loverboy," He mutters, and stares down at the city. It hasn't changed ta all: Cato has. He's not the boy he was before, and now gravity is holding him down in this cursed, starless city. "That was some stunt you pulled. I can only hope you feel better for making her cry."

Coming up to his side, but shorter, Peeta looks on at the city, too. He shrugs one shoulder, passively. "I'd rather watch her cry, then jump," The point is pretty stand-up, and while it's in Cato's nature to argue with anything thrown at him, he cannot fault Peeta, or what he has said. The boy is nothing short of gold, a diamond in the rough. And he hates it.

All too soon, though, the conversation turns on Cato. "How about you?" The boy asks. "Feel any better now that you hit me?"

Cato feels himself smirk. "A little,"

It doesn't make Peeta smile. He drops his eyes. "You'll feel even better when you take me down in your Career pack, huh?" the joke is weak, and filled with fear and bitterness. Cato frowns.

"They're not my allies," He says, simply.

"But you-" Peeta starts. He gets silenced.

"I don't want to kill anybody."

The Surplus chokes, a bit. "That's fair," He says. "You remember the girl from my District? Katniss Everdeen?"

Her screams are the ones that keep Cato awake moot frequently. She had cried out for Rue, and she had screamed for a girl called 'Prim' for hours, as she was torn into pieces, not human, but meat, entertainment, media fodder, and food for the Capitol's little show. Of course, he remembers he. "Girl on Fire." He mumbles. "Yeah. What about her?"

Peeta shuffles and squirms under Cato's gaze. "since we're being honest." He mumbles. "I loved her, y'know."

Cato swallows. "Jesus," He whispers. "I'm sorry I took her from you,"

The laugh Peeta gives is false. "I guess we're even."

"What –you and me?" The boy nods. Cato sighs. "Sure, we're even," And then his face turns darker. "But whether or not you're smooth with Clove-... that's up to her."

The Games are in four days. Even is the best he can hope for.


	23. Act 5, Scene 3

"Does it hurt?"

Peeta is usually alone. Taking the elevator with Irving is stifling, not only because they have never spoken a word to one another, but also because they will be forced to kill eachother, or at least watch eachother get killed, in a matter of days.

This is the first day they have gone down to training together. Peeta stands far in the corner, running a finger over the screen of is embedded time. Since the parade, it looks much nicer, and less grisly. There are no scratches, or visible wires. The black finish is stark against his skin, but warm, of all things. He has become so used to it, that when Irving points it out, just to make conversation, their first conversation, he thinks it strange that somebody would ask.

"Your time, I mean," She mumbles. "Does it ever hurt you?"

Peeta cannot say. Some kind of dull ache is often upon him, he couldn't say either way if it was in fact the embedded time or something darker, uglier, more serious. He remembers the implanting, the disassociation, and sure, at the time, it had been all sorts of absolute, cork-screw turning agony. Since, it hasn't much bothered him.

He gives Irving a one-shouldered shrug, trying to remain neutral. There's no real reason for him to dislike the girl, aside from the Games. But Irving can't hunt, she will not survive. Emotionally, Peeta knows it isn't worth getting close. "Not anymore," He says, simply. She nods.

Irving is from the Merchant's part of 12, like Peeta. Her eyes are more blue than green, her face is white from indoor work, and her hair is even blonder than Peeta's. He suspects she might be the daughter of the tailor. At the reaping, she had been one of the rare few in a darker dye, some beautiful, but uncommon shade of indigo. Yeah, that's her. Peeta remembers the shop window, with all of the mannequins lined up in fancy clothes. That's just how he felt at the tribute parade: a mannequin, made beautiful, but hollow, too.

"Where did you Surplus?" She asks. What's so interesting about it? Usually, back at home, it's more of a taboo: people don't like to think about the exploitation of their youth. Irving seems pretty fascinated. It's not. Fascinating, I mean. It's grim, and even though Peeta has got it easy, he has even become a little complacent, he needs only think of prim, and how she cried.

He remembers again that he must answer the question. "Uhm, District 2,"

Irving nods. "What is it like?"

That's trickier than it seems. The idea of Cato, and Clove and their beautiful, monster of a house in 2 does not sit well in his mind next to the Seam, of the hob and Katniss, dragging in her wares from the forest. What would they think, people at home, if they knew how Peeta feels about his patron? You're not supposed to fall in love with a Career, or a victor. You're supposed to despise them, but Peeta cannot.

"It's-" He purses his lips. He thinks about his patron, and then speaks. "It's beautiful. I mean, not always nice, but it's still a hell of a place."

They still have a few floors to ride. Irving nods, very serious, as if digesting his answer. She'll ask again. Who doesn't want to know? That's one of Peeta's attractions, as a tribute. At least, that's what Cinna says. He thinks that it's very dramatic and dark and romantic, having Peeta as this downtrodden, abused but valiant sort of character. Even if that's not who Peeta is.

(Truth is: the Capitol won't care who Peeta really is anyway. They'll forget him when he dies. )

"You ever miss home?" She asks, and then scoffs. "Of course not. Guess it doesn't look like much when you compare it to 2," Peeta feels himself become piqued, and almost defensive. To a girl on equal footing. But Irving speaks before he can answer. "Besides," She smiles. "It's pretty obvious what keeps you there,"

Oh, Christ. Is it so obvious? Peeta looks away, he feels himself break out into a blush and –dammit! Beetee was right. About the oxygen leaving the room. He feels like a fish out of water, gasping, needing air, needing the water to wash away all of his sins. It feels as if the space between Peeta and Irving's damn smirk is decreasing exponentially until that's all he sees, mocking him, causing this heat to surge through him.

"Don't worry about it, Mellark," Irving grins to him. "Simple girl like me? I don't know nothing about it,"

The doors ping open. Training has started.

Central to the room is the wrestling circle, empty, much like the rest of the place. Instructors stand by the right wall, waiting patiently, with two or so of them missing, tending to the present tributes. Far at the back are the targets, for spear-throwing and archery, and to their left, mannequins for camouflage, or for something grislier. Some are still missing limbs.

Peeta isn't sure what to make of it. The training day is supposed to have started by now, a good twenty minutes in, and a sparse handful of tributes have turned out. Even then, most of them stay at survival technique stations. It's an arrogance thing, Peeta realises it quickly. The ones that have arrived are the non-victors, female tributes from eight and nine, who stay shy of one another, Seeder, an old woman from 11, and both victors of District 3.

The arrogance is with those who haven't turned up: the Careers, who must think it's a safe bet, even if they're not the betting type. He's seen the way District 1 and their allies swagger around with one another, and even Cato, who doesn't have the audacity to strut. As if they are above trying. Ass if the Sponsors will just fall into their laps. Cashmere, the female from 1, is this classically beautiful young woman. She needs only press her lips together and the arena will be raining little silver parachutes. They must be laughing at Cato, married to his mentor, and who would not open his lap to saint-seducing gold.

Irving gives him this awful smirk, but says none either way and heads off to a station Peeta is already proficient enough in. He can't stand to be around that knowing stare, and since there are no Careers sizing him up, Peeta takes the opportunity to handle an actual weapon for the first time ever, unless sacks of flour and the occasional kitchen-blunted knife count. It takes him a very long time to cross the floor, and even longer to actually select something.

It's the bow. It's always been the bow. Peeta turns to the instructor, who had meandered over, and lifts a hand, suddenly nervous. Does he dare?

"May I-?" His voice is pinched and odd. The instructor nods.

"Of course,"

His hands are quivering a little bit when he pries the silver curve from its stand. The bow itself has a beautiful, natural curve, and it's the same grey as Katniss' eyes, starlight silver. It looks identical to hers, surprisingly light, and clean. Four arrows glisten from their resting-place, the flights looking harsh and mechanical. Memories hit him suddenly, always of her, and her hands, her beautiful, dainty fingers wrapped around the grip, eyes fixed in precision.

Peeta doesn't know how to shoot. He never thought to learn. He never thought he would end up here, so it's an error of judgement more than anything. The instructor waits for him to select an arrow, and then walk to the mark, a few metres from a target. It's in the shape of a person.

Peeta's hands are placed correctly, and his posture corrected. The grip is strange, the idea of firing, and he tries to remember what he heard some of the Career archers saying about precision. About exhaling very slowly, and releasing the bowstring. It's difficult. By nature, his hands are shaky and his eyes trick him, and the tip of the arrow seems so lethal and unforgiving. Whatever Peeta's trying to kill, or destroy, it isn't a person-shaped paper target. No, his enemy is buried somewhere deeper, much harder to get at, and almost never defenceless.

In his reverie, Peeta realises he's stalling, and refocuses. The ding of the elevator means a fresh set of eyes watching him, and the thought makes Peeta nervous. He blinks, furiously, and lets his weight settle before drawing back a tiny bit more and firing.

The arrow shoots silently and pierces the target through the left shoulder. Peeta remains frozen, bow still poised, string vibrating sympathetically. Silence in the room. What strikes him first is how simple the process is. To fire. How easy it would be to kill somebody, to take an actual life, just with the pulling back to the string.

The second is this horrible uncurling in his stomach. That he wants to do it again.

A hand claps him on the shoulder, and Peeta squeaks. "Well look at Loverboy On Fire," Cato lets out a small laugh. It might be funny, but Peeta can't seem to react, shocked. "You look like you barely know which end of the arrow goes in the target,"

Peeta squirms from under his arm, and wrestles himself free. He can't stand to be patronised. Especially because Cato jokes about Katniss like it's okay, like it doesn't even bother him. But it still hurts because the boy still cares. He might be even with Cato, but that doesn't mean he has to like him.

"Hold my aching sides," Peeta mumbles, and takes a few steps to the left, selecting another arrow. He's no good, that much is certain, and even though Katniss had the steadiness and grace for the bow, Peeta knows he doesn't. It's something to do, though,. It might kill the conversation before it gets any more painful. He loads the bow and tries to hold it like the instructor had shown him, with strange hand movements and the right fingers in the right places. But he can't get the hang of it when Cato is judging him like that.

Peeta looks away from the target for a second, "What?" He sounds annoyed. Cato wets his lips.

"You're holding it wrong," He says, with that tone of voice that makes Peeta feel a fool. He resists reacting and tries to steady the shake in his hands.

"Whatever," Peeta says. It's the way Cato knows he's 'won', because whenever somebody ends a conversation with 'whatever' or some kind of curse; they usually have nothing more useful or valid to say. But, for some reason, the victory isn't enough.

Cato takes a step closer the boy and puts a hand high on the bow. "You'll miss," He says. Peeta pulls the bow down.

"Get off," He snaps, but the victor holds on tight.

"I'm only trying to help you, Loverboy." Cato grinds out, as they struggle over their respective halves of the weapon. They both teeter like infants fighting; growling to eachother on a silly, whimsical matter of pride, or maybe it's some kind of subliminal revenge. Either way, Peeta pulls down and Cato tugs the bow towards him so that Peeta stumbles onto Cato's feet. "You need to-"

"Get off!" Peeta pulls the bowstring back and scuttles a few steps rearward, his face going pink. Cato tugs him the other way.

"Would you –Jesus! –Why are you so-"

The bow gets pulled upwards sharply, and Peeta releases the bowstring, letting go and falling onto the floor. The arrow goes horrifyingly fast into the wall high above the target and a few centimetres from the Gamemakers observing. He looks up, suddenly pale, and then to Cato, who is holding the bow by the top, frozen, all deer-in-the-headlights. Smart enough, Cato drops the bow back onto it's stand and pulls Peeta to standing.

"Well, you missed," They stare at eachother for a second before the nerves get to them and Peeta manages a very uncomfortable laugh. He doesn't know how to begin to talk to Cato. Sure, they might have things in common, like Clove, and similar interests, like Clove, and even the same living partner, Clove, Peeta knows he shouldn't try to be too friendly with Cato. The man has a temper like semtex.

"I don't think the bow is my strong suit," He says very slowly. Peeta wants out from under the look he's receiving and back home, where the bread is warm and the sacks of flour are soft from being slept on. In the marketplace there is just enough to go around, and the familiar faces of strangers in their places is enough to make him feel safe. Here, Peeta is aware of the tributes and the Gamemakers and the instructors, all watching him. They'll be the ones to watch him die, too, and only Peeta's brothers will mourn him.

What happens next is not an act of competition or resentment, but an act of kindness.

"I've seen you, with the dyes," Cato makes a rough gesture to one of the survival technique stations, that he's failed to visit yet and no doubt last year. The arrogance of a Career is like a bad smell, and while Cato has washed until his skin has bled, it lingers, ingrained and unlearned like a subliminal sort of hatred. "Think you could teach me to do that?"

Peeta swallows: his mouth suddenly crisp and dry like sandpaper. There's no oxygen in the air and no water in his body. "You're handy enough with a sword," He says slowly. "You wouldn't need to hide,"

Cato folds his arms. "You're handy enough with dye. You wouldn't need a bow,"

It's unbearable. Tributes, unless they're in a clear, systematic alliance, do not speak to one another. They make damn sure to pretend like nobody else exists. It's too costly to get close to anybody here, Peeta knows that, he will only get burned. Sure, the other twenty-three, including Cato, might be all kinds of things. But like as not, one of them will be Peeta's murderer.

"This isn't how it works," Peeta blurts out, suddenly. "You'll have to kill me,"

Cato coughs. "Jesus, Loverboy, aren't you a ray of sunshine?" The joke earns no laughter or good nature. Peeta has been honest, and it's clear Cato's struggling with the concept of honesty. "I can leave that to some other tribute,"

The flippancy of the comment makes Peeta furious. "This isn't a joke!" He cries out, exasperated, and confused about how he feels, and what he thinks, and of Clove and getting even, and of winning or getting even. He's going to die, and everybody treats it like some kind of trivial detail. His urgent tone seems to strike a chord with Cato, who drops his arms and sighs.

"You think I don't know that?" He says, through gritted teeth, as if it pains him to speak seriously. Last year, he was all Games talk in his interview, and apart from the small aside when he saved Clove's life, Cato has managed to keep his depth well-hidden from the Capitol and the camera and Peeta. Sometimes even Clove, too. "Jesus, Loverboy." He sighs. "If Clove isn't threatening to jump of a goddamned building, then she's crying to me."

Peeta feels himself tense up. He cannot speak to his patron about his other patron. He can't speak to Cato about Clove because there are a thousand different versions of her, and it's a strange way of saying neither of them have ever gotten the best of her for very long. No man can serve two masters.

"I didn't mean-" He gets out, pathetically. Cato waves him off.

"Forget it,"

Peeta tries to keep a low profile after that. He sticks to physical things, like climbing and parkour and the net of rope, trying to exhaust himself enough that his nightmares won't be so real or so terrifying. It has been weeks since he dreamt of Katniss, that's the thing. A new face stars centre-stage. A new lover that twirls, too far out for Peeta to grasp, and shining too bright for him to watch without wincing the night away, stealing the show.

There's also an unspoken alliance between Peeta and District 3. Beetee joins Peeta at most of the stations, and wherever Beetee is, Wiress isn't far behind, mumbling to herself, fiddling with some sort of eccentric gadget. They're older, in their thirties, so neither are particularly keen to join Peeta, a sixteen-year-old in climbing and running and jumping, but they stand along the sides, fixing ropes and talking. Collectively, they are referred to as 'Nuts and Volts', and nobody else seems to want them in an alliance. What does Peeta care? They're useful enough to him.

Nobody wants Peeta either, but that's for a different reason entirely. He's a Surplus. A slave, a servant, a Valuable Asset. Only, here, he's not valuable so much as dispensable.

It doesn't bother him until the afternoon.

The Careers, by then, have turned up and have begun to size up the competition. They appear to be led by Gloss, the male District of 1, and his sister, Cashmere. Both of them, as it is well known, own a few Surpluses, which they collar and treat pretty badly, on all counts. Most of their Surpluses are from eleven, dark-skinned with golden eyes, so Peeta hopes they'll not give him any unwanted attention for it. But his embedded time is like a ribbon in his wrist, a present that they all can't wait to unwrap by tearing the skin off of his back.

Truth be told, even if it's none of Peeta's business, he feels a little lied to. Cato had made it pretty clear that he didn't want to kill anybody, and that he wasn't part of their pack. But, as Peeta can quite clearly see, Cato makes no bones about laughing with them or enjoying a joke or even speaking about nothing in particular.

Only, it stops being about nothing when Peeta falls from one of the scaffolds, and his embedded time cracks, letting blood through the surface of the screen. He remains motionless on the floor, trying to staunch the bleeding, when the laughter trickles down from the sword station and is shot at Peeta. Beetee kneels in front of him, inspecting the damage.

"Oh," he says, mildly. "I'm sure that will heal up okay,"

From where Peeta is sat, he can see them all, staring at him, laughing like it's great and funny when it isn't. The girl from one, this classically stunning blonde, is the first and loudest to mock him. She turns on Cato, expressionless and tense, with this horrifying smirk.

"Darling," She begins, as normal. Cashmere insists on calling everybody 'darling' because she has that arrogance, lives under the assumption that everybody loves her, when in fact, they despise her. "I hope you didn't pay full-price for _that_."

Cato remains very quiet. "I can't remember,"

Cashmere lets out a frivolous laugh. "A good thing, too. At least you had something to beat, at home. I can't imagine where I'd be without a Surplus to maim when I'm feeling a bit-"

That's what breaks him. With every word she says, Peeta can see it, Prim crying and Gale fighting and raving and every other damned Surplus at the station in 12, human beings, scared and helpless children that are sold into the Capitol as some kind of currency, as outlets for the hostile and broken. And for what? How many families will still starve? How many Surpluses will go to their graves without trial because a patron got a little 'out-of-hand'? Who draws the line?

Peeta rises to his feet and cradles the cracked face of his embedded time. The blood is hot, but not nearly as beet red as Peeta's face. He stands before the Careers, sizing them up. His voice is all whispered and pianissimo when he speaks. "What did you say?"

Cashmere laughs again. "Well isn't he precious?" She turns on Cato again. "You always did manage to pick the handfuls,"

That doesn't sit well with Cato. Not at all. He draws himself to full height and stares her down. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Peeta is acutely aware of the knife in his belt that he had been using earlier, and even though he doesn't want to be a killer, he would love to mark up cashmere's beautiful features, down in the lines to form a grimacing grin. He takes another step forward and fixes his eyes on her.

"I'm not a Surplus," he snaps. But it only makes her laugh again, and Christ, that damn laugh, what he wouldn't give to hear her try it while being strangled.

" Tell your mutt to sit, Cato," She orders him. Cato looks at Peeta, and the blood. His alliance turns at the same time as his stomach.

"I'm not his Surplus!" The hall echoes with Peeta's words. He's not speaking, he's shouting, as loud as he possibly can. It has the attention of the Avoxes and the Peacekeepers and the Gamemakers. Cashmere manages to keep her laughter contained to a smile, all sure and certain. She walks right up to Peeta and lifts his chin with her hand.

"You're a useless Surplus," She tells him. "Don't you know, that's why you outline Districts still exist," Her voice is sultry and like smoke, it makes Peeta nauseous and sick. The smile makes is worse, it hurts more than the serious bleeding in his wrist. Cashmere remains so steady and calm, so unnervingly present. "You think we need coal? When we have power from five?"

Peeta feels his arms bend at the elbows.

"Oh, no," Cashmere taps the tip of his nose with a dainty finger. "No, no, not at all. You provide a supply of pretty little punching bags for all of us-"

Peeta thinks of Prim. He breaks. Lifting a hand, he slaps her full around the face, and Cashmere flares up.

"Don't you touch me!" She screams, lifting a hand and leaving Peeta with blood in his eyes and three jagged lines down one cheek. He shoves her backwards.

"You bitch!" Furious, he grabs a section of blonde and tugs, making the woman howl. It's only then she realises his obvious weakness and takes hold of his embedded time, squeezing until Peeta is shrieking The blood feels pyroclastic and molten again his skin and Cashmere is unrelenting, her face fixed in fury as she grips harder, watching the colour drain from his face and the air leave his lungs and the fight exit his body. Peeta thinks she'll snap his wrist.

"Mutt!" She screams. "Don't you touch me!"

Gloss, her brother, comes rushing in, taking her by the shoulders, and, to his surprise, Peeta gets help of his own. The pain lessens when Gloss manages to pry his sister away.

"Can't you control her?" Cato hisses. it sets her off again.

"Talk to me like that-"

"Cashmere!" Gloss shouts, pulling her backwards. She continues.

"You wait until the arena-"

_"Cashmere!" _

"Get her out of here!" Cato snaps. Peeta steps forward and spits on the ground where she stood.

"You touch me again-" Peeta finally gets the sense to pull the knife from his belt and gesture it towards her. Cato pulls on his shoulder, trying to ease him up.

Cashmere growls. "I told you he was a handful!"

"You don't know a handful!" Peeta screams back, before he gets spun around to face Cato, who is apparently on his side. The victor places his hands on the boy's shoulders and tries to calm him down.

"Jesus, Peeta," He breathes.

"No," Peeta tries to pry himself free, but Cato is having none of it.

"Hey," He says, and then, when he's not listened to. "Hey!" Peeta turns to face him, ashamed, indignant and furious, beyond anything Cato has ever seen. "What is the matter with you?"

It's the first time Cato has ever seen this side of the Surplus trade. Peeta is shaking with rage and he's all stuck with blood, but most of all, he looks so young, too young, too haunted to be fighting such an uphill battle.

The boy looks ready to cry. He drops the weapon and opens his mouth but nothing comes out. They all know it before he says it. The words make Cato ashamed, but he has to hear them. They all do.

"I was a Surplus, and I have a knife, and look how she treated me," Peeta gasps. "I can only _imagine_ how she treats her Surpluses,"

Unable to stand it, Peeta ups and leaves, with nothing but the cold air, and this bitter taste signalling the departure. It finally hits Cato that Peeta isn't a Surplus. He isn't a mutt, or an enemy. He isn't a thief, or an adulterer, a baker or a storyteller.

He's a kid. He's scared. He's going to be slaughtered.


	24. Act 5, Scene 4

They can fix all sorts of things in the Capitol. That's what Peeta's told when he gets sent to the infirmary. His Doctor, a cosmetic pixie of a man, assures him on the prowess of medicine here. They can fix blindness, they can reconstruct ears. They can change skin, faces, eye colour, or fix broken bones, remove tumours and make even the dullest creature remarkable.

They fix Peeta up, just like they're taught. He says not a word as they pull the cracked, bloodied piece of glass out of his wrist, and then go deeper, to the wires, trickier to get at. The surgeons try at being gentle, but make an elaborate pantomime of it all; wrenching copper all crimson with blood so forcefully that Peeta feels his eyes go dangerously damp. He hears them whisper, in tongues that he doesn't know and words Peeta can't place in his mind. When they're not looking, he presses a finger into the mess of pulp and gore, where the broken glass is like diamonds.

Even in this place, with a few medical attendings and surgeons, Peeta feels incredibly alone. None come for him. Nobody really cares, and it makes him furious. Peeta knows that he's going to die all alone, totally alone, with not a song or a word to his name and they will all forget him. But what he hates most of all, even more than that, is how they own him. He doesn't want to be another player in this game. He doesn't want to be the product of a harrowing sport. Peeta can't stand to have them change him.

How would they change him? He thinks of Clove, and how intelligent and sarcastic and bittersweet she is. How human. But, in the previous Games, she had snatched the first kill at the Cornucopia. It didn't take long for her or Cato, brutal as he already was, to turn deadly. They make it look too easy, to take a life. Peeta doesn't want to turn. He doesn't think he could live with it.

(They can fix all sorts of things in the Capitol. They can play God, the Devil. They can rebuild people, and they can kill them, slowly. But they can't fix Peeta. )

In no time at all, they have managed to replace the embedded time. Peeta has grown so fond of it, and so used to the sensation of every second. Part of him, this horribly deviant side of him wants to win, just to show them, all of them, the value and humanity of a Surplus. What would that achieve? People are still starving in 12. They always will be. A boy from the merchant section of District 12 can't change that, and Peeta knows it.

The embedded time hurts, just as it did when he'd first had it put in, but that's okay. He'll get used to it. They leave Peeta in the quiet of an empty room, and then he really is alone. The thoughts drive him mad, but madder still when he thinks of what had brought him here. _I was a Surplus, and I have a knife, and look how she treated me. I can only imagine how she treats her Surpluses. _

Truth is, Peeta doesn't want to. Every time he sees a Surplus abused or beaten, he sees one of his brothers, he sees Prim, or even that small girl from 11, ready to take flight at any moment. So young, too young. At least she had passed with a song. At least she had gone with a friend watching over her.

Peeta isn't angry with their patrons. Ones who beat or starve or punish them. They are doing what they're taught. They haven't invented this hatred; they have learned it and never bothered to unlearn it. Peeta despises the Capitol for that, most of all. They are his enemy.

The exception to the rule appears in the door with this knowing smile.

"Cinna," Peeta calls him, having mastered his temper, much calmer and more rational now. The stylist doesn't seem angry, even though he has reason to be. It makes him afraid of the silence between them until Cinna speaks. That is the best sign Peeta could hope for: it means the man has something to say, as he doesn't usually waste his words.

"It seems you made quite the impression," He says, with this look like he's pleased about something, and that something can't be Peeta. He's done wrong, surely. Even Cinna, the kindest of them all, is still surrounded by this hatred. He must think, somewhere, even the smallest amount, that Peeta is subservient, and inhuman. The gold flecks around his eyes speak truth, he's gold, valued and rare in heart.

Peeta feels ashamed. He smooths over the new component planted into his skin and sighs. "I'm sorry," His voice is small. Even a Surplus has pride, and sometimes Peeta has too much. The apology is genuine, though. He hates to waste Cinna's time, or have him embarrassed. Cinna sits beside him.

"We're all sorry for something," He sighs, and then shifts his shoulder. "Why? What're you sorry for?"

Peeta grits his teeth. "I just lost it." He grinds out. "It was the way she talked about her Surpluses, Cinna. You should have heard her," The heat flushes down him like a fever and Peeta becomes consumed with it, his face going redder and redder and his body growing tighter than a bowstring in the grip of tension. "It was like they weren't people to her. I can't even _imagine_-…"

Cinna takes it all in, and does not pressure the boy to either speak or be silent. "You must be disgusted by all of us," And Peeta knows in his mind, it's not Cinna, it could never be him, and it isn't Cato or Clove, their perfect victors, their beautiful murderers, so quick to turn deadly but so beautiful at the broken places, too. They are players of a game they have been taught rather than invented, and Peeta cannot hate them for it.

"It's different here," Peeta decides after a while, because that's a safe word. He doesn't want to be angry anymore. He doesn't want to die like that. Cinna laughs and Peeta sees it as a challenge. "It's beautiful," He says, even though it isn't.

"You're clever, Peeta, you really are," Cinna says, suddenly, and that's not something to hear. Peeta knows that his mother didn't seem to think so, and neither had Cato, even if they are even. Clove would say something like that, but only before leaning forward, heavy-lidded with her eyes just so in that alluring but terrifying way.

"That doesn't seem to count for much," He gets out weakly.

"And you're brave," Cinna looks very serious. It's enough to make anybody want to make themselves a bed at the bottom of the ocean just to get away from the immense pressure here. "I saw that painting, on your wall. 'Not the President, the conductor'."

Peeta swallows. "Oh," He says.

"You show them that, okay? When the time comes," He doesn't sound angry. That's a first. Instead, Cinna nods to him, all-business, with the sake of Peeta's training score and the prospect of Sponsors at heart. After his dramatic entrance at the tribute parade, Cinna won't have much of a job making Peeta unforgettable with Caesar. After all, that's what helped Katniss. He made her the Girl on Fire, and they all feel in love at first flame. "They're going to assess you, and when that happens, don't reach for a weapon. They have dyes and colours. Make them realise how smart you are,"

Peeta is flattered, but still nervous. "You're not angry?"

Cinna lets out a golden laugh. "Not at all. Effie was furious, I might add, but she's too busy to be on your case." They fall silent, and maybe it's that Peeta is in his uniform, and still has blood flecking his hands and arms and face, but Cinna can't stand to stay wordless. It's as if they're parting already when there's time: even a little to be lazy. "They're going to remember you, Peeta. You're different," Cinna hands him something small, the tiniest piece of home. His token.

He shrugs. "Well, at least if I die young, I'll die smart too, right?"

Cinna looks ready to Protest when a Peacekeeper coughs and the conversation dies away. "Back to Training," She says. And Peeta can't exactly argue. He goes without comment.

It's quieter by the time he gets back. The Careers have all but disbanded. In the last hour, most of them go up to have a nice long dinner and a chinwag about who they'll kill first and how they'll do it (and at this rate it's likely to be Peeta, slowly). But a few are still there. The non-victors, as Peeta thinks of them, females from 8, 9 and Irving are still Training, along with Beetee and Wiress and both from five. Even Cato has stayed. Peeta thinks he might slip in quietly sand finish up without getting pulled up about his social equality warrior stunt. No such luck when Cato waves him over.

By the time Peeta is by the spears with the victor, he knows what he's going to say. With a quick breath, he feigns annoyance. He might speak, but Cato takes the words first, even if he doesn't know how to use them. His sentiment is lovely, really, but Cato has the habit of being constantly tongue-tied, cutting up the meaning into pieces on the floor and hopelessly rearranging. Clove forgives him because of his perfection as a specimen, most likely.

"They replaced your component," He notes, slowly, standing the spear up which stands as high as Peeta. And the boy has seen, too, he knows that Cato could throw it just as far, if not further than even a season archer like Katniss could fire. "Does it hur-"

Peeta is tired of questions for today. And to be quite honest, he's tired of fighting battles and losing or even having t speak. He misses the days of quietly sorting Cato's house, back in 2, waiting with this strange smile on his face to speak to Clove at midnight, and drink and laugh and sing, until some blind hand brushed it all away. It's not Cato's fault, but it doesn't help, and Peeta knows being around him will do no good. He's got too much on his sleeves and it's too much to do with Cato, and Clove, and all of that mess they left in 2.

"It's fine," Peeta settles on, shrugging. He drops his eyes. Silenced by the evening hush and the twilight hushfulness, but most of all robbed of meaning by this look he's receiving. The lack of conversation if awful, so Peeta stuffs his hands between his pockets, and rocks on his heels, like he does when he's nervous. Cato fiddles with the spear.

"I should go," Finally, Peeta says, and he takes a few steps before h's pulled back again.

"12!" He's called back by the victor, and his voice is all strange and desperate and sharp. Cato doesn't ask for things, he doesn't do it nicely and he doesn't ever sound like that. What he liked, he takes, just as he took to Clove, even if she tries to kill him every now and then. He supposes that's to be expected. "Wait, 12."

"It's Peeta," Peeta sighs, turning. Cato squints.

"It's what?" The déjà vu hits him like an old friend clapping him on the shoulder, so Peeta learns to smile, and he takes a few paces back towards the man with the spear, the victor, and the only tribute worthy of victory, the only one with a purpose and reason to get home. Clove doesn't need him, not one bit, but she likes to have him around her. At least, that's what she told Peeta.

"It's nothing, Almasy," Peeta smiles, and stands, arms akimbo. "How can I help you?"

That seems to blindside Cato. He wets his lips and opens his mouth a few times, only to close it on each occasion, silence, dumbfounded, at a loss on every level. Whatever he's trying to say, it's stuck to him like a poisonous dart and it isn't coming loose. For now, Peeta should try to guess. "Cato?"

That pushes him to action. "I need a favour."

Peeta smirks. ~"Then spit it out and swallow your pride. At least it isn't fattening,"

"Nobody likes a smartass," Cato retorts.

"Nobody likes a dumbass, either,"

That raises the victor's eyebrows. Cato brings the spear around to his front and lifts it in the position to throw. The way Peeta is standing there, much shorter and smaller and sicklier, and yet so unafraid, is almost comical. The boy has the brains and the heart and the courage. So, not the lion or the scarecrow or the tin man, Peeta is like Dorothy and he just wants to get home. The boy laughs and walks over to the station of spears, managing to lift a partisan, holding it like a pickaxe.

Cato goes over to the throw line and leans back, putting his weight onto his right foot and remembering the steps. The throw is scarily-perfect, and Cato isn't merciful, he doesn't go for the heart. The shaft of the spear pierces the neck and travel's about one-third of it's length, that it would make for a bloody, unceremonious death. Cato turns back to Peeta.

"You might not be my Surplus anymore, Loverboy," He smirks, slouching into ease. "But I could still string you up a tree so fast it'd make your head spin," Cato savours the advantage, selecting another spear and strutting like a peacock, overly-vain of the colours that will grey over time. Peeta remains steadfast and motionless.

The boy raises his eyebrows. "You needed a favour?" Well played. It knocks all the air from Cato's sails, and his mouth is a little slack when he puts the spear back, shuffling, a strange transformation from victor into boy, or sullen child. That's the nice things about Cato, at least, he doesn't buy the stock-standard Games bullshit. He knows that even if he won, he's not special or different or immortal. Everybody goes, eventually.

"It's-…" Cato closes his eyes. He hates feeling a fool, and this makes him a first-class jester. "I mean, I was only going to ask because-"

Peeta gestures behind him. "I've got things to do, you know,"

That makes Cato's face turn ugly. "Shut it, 12. I'm not afraid to hit a kid," He realises that getting angry doesn't exactly sell him as a candidate for a favour so he starts over slowly, clearing his throat, trying to seem neutral which is hard when he has at least twenty kilos and a foot on Peeta and when he's holding a spear with such ease. The other stares, dully awed, one-third buried in the target's neck.

"It's like you said, I'm pretty handy with a spear," Cato shrugs. "And I'm fine with a sword. I'm a threat, where all of the other tributes are concerned, sure." And there it is. For the first time, Peeta sees him look scared, not of Clove jumping, but he looks nine years old, terrified, clinging to whatever he can find, turning to death and sobbing, shaking, managing to whimper out 'not today'. Forget that Cato has killed, and that he has a horrible temper and he can be selfish and mean and cruel. You could say a lot against him, but there's so much to say for him, too.

"I'm no good at figuring things out. And I don't have a strong alliance like last time. Chances are, this arena will be tough, and it'll be complex." Cato closes his eyes. "There's a good chance that I won't-"

"You'll do fine," Peeta tries to assure him. It's just another piteous platitude of pain, and when they say it to Peeta, he laughs with scorn, he laugh hard, because others have fallen, too. Cato doesn#'t take his words.

"I'm not scared of dying," He says, plainly. "I'm not. I've been-" He gets out this tormented laugh, like he's seen so much he should have shut his eyes to. "Jesus, I've been surrounded y death for so long. I'm not afraid, y'know. I just-…" The thought trails off again.

"You just what?" Peeta prompts him, faintly.

"I can't leave Clove," Cato swallows. "You know?" He looks to Peeta for support as if the boys opinions are law. "I'm not saying that she can't handle things on her own. I mean, Jesus Christ, Loverboy, I go crazy thinking about the time she could have without me,"

Peeta swallows. He's heard something similar before. "What do you want me for?"

Cato nods. "I can keep you alive as best I know. I can do that. I'm good at keeping things safe." He assures them both. "I did it with Clove, and I'll do it with you."

Peeta stares at him. "Why?"

"You know how it is, 12. A lone victor. And that could be more, or you, or some other tribute," He takes another deep breath, as if somehow nervous. "If I can't make it home, and make her happy-…if I can't win, I mean." Cato nods to the boy. "Then it's gotta be you,"

"Me?" Peeta asks, in a tiny voice that trembles in the cold.

"I'll help you," Cato assures him. "You think you can try not to die, with my help?" The boy considers it. "You have to look after her, though. If you win. You have to look after both of my girls, okay?"

And Peeta doesn't like this: not one bit. He has already accepted his death, but here is the fickle finger of fate, pointing him to Cato, who really has the fickle finger which gets to decide if he should live or die. The proposition throws it all into a strange light, because Peeta loves, truly and hopefully, but this would mean something terrible and wonderful, all at once. It's not as if Peeta wants to be murdered, but he doesn't want to murder, either. The latter seems preferable, for his love. What greater favour could he do than to sunder the hand that was an enemy? It all goes around and around in Peeta's head and then he realises he should answer the poor victor, and put him out of his clear state of misery.

"Yes," He says, quietly. "I guess I owe you guys that much," It breaks all the tension into pieces so small they don't even matter. Cato's whole body goes slack with relief, and his smile, Jesus Christ, it's beautiful and honest, soft with this undying love that has become afraid of the winter upon them. Peeta glows a canary to sing them home, and he is hope, the best of things. Fragile and caged, but good and safe, for now. "You weren't exactly going to let me say no, were you?" The boy manages a joke. Cato shrugs.

"Well, like I say, I'm not afraid to hit a kid," The victor looks proud again. At ease with his glee, still childlike, but in a peaceful way. "You weren't exactly exercising restraint with Cashmere, earlier,"

Peeta bows his head. "Are they going to hold that against me in the arena?" It comes from innocence, and from the near slaughter'd youth. It's almost adorable, and compared to the seedy, tainted victors and Capitol citizens, Peeta is this untouchable, divine saint-like boy. Cato can't help but laugh as he picks up a broadsword, testing it, wondering how something so beautiful and passive can cause such horror.

"I fought plenty in Training last Year," He assures the boy. "They shouldn't do anything. It's a television show. They just want a good show," Peeta still looks unsure. Cato drops the weapon back onto it's stand and sighs. "They like you, anyway. You put on your parade clothes for your interview and be a smartass, they'll be tripping over themselves to Sponsor you,"

"I was a Surplus," Peeta mumbles, ashamed. "Most of them are still musing on me being a real person."

The thought gives Cato no pause. He waves a hand as if to swat away the notion of it. "Are you kidding me? It's a sob story. They'll eat it right up like it's sugar-free," Peeta laughs. He tries to settle the sudden nervous. The staggered onslaught of panic, that he'll need to survive and regroup and understand the arena. At a station earlier, he had to identify water types. Some were acidic or alkaline. Some were clean, and one was a pale blue, and cold. It turned anything it touched to a beautiful, but deadly crystal.

"I'm ready," Peeta lies, to try and bolster his esteem.

Cato scratches behind his ear. "And not a minute too soon," He cracks his knuckles. "You got your token sorted?"

Peeta nods. Just as Cinna had given it to him, Peeta presents to proud little lion craving, from 12, that Clove had given him. It remains, with it's mouth open, regal and lovely, with the silk tongue and scruff looking somehow neat. The details in the face men that the eyes, which are actually very small black onyx, blink as if aware of it's surroundings. It's the way Cato looks at it, though, with this absolute passivity.

"It's cute," He says, apathetically. What Cato really thinks is that Clove is elusive and sly and fickle with her affections. A stab of jealousy hits him right in the chest, ad it nearly makes Cato stagger backwards. Peeta looks on, unaware, and it's clear to the victor.

If the alliances between them holds, he'll lose his mind first.


	25. Act 6, Scene 1

It's true what they say about the Capitol, you know. A city that never sleeps.

It's only just breaking into a lilac half-light when her eyes open, but rolling on the back of the open window she can hear the insane mishmash of yells and cheers. Down in the city circle, the false-deities lose their ballads and their lip-mouths and illuminate the way with lighters and all sorts of colours. This place, and indeed all of it's people are too much, too heavy and too stifling. Clove comes from the most affluent section of two, and while that as a reputation of it's own for being flamboyant and enduring, It's nothing in comparison.

In the dim, she turns onto her side and wonders if any of them sleep, or if they have solved the problem of needing together. It makes her so angry, so furious to see these women, with their airy, idle chats and their frivolous laughter and an appetite only for the most unholy host of powders and pills. They all live so fast and die so young, so tragically. Those kind of girls aren't anybody's daughters, that's for sure.

You can see it in the victors here, especially the morphlings from six, this pair of shrivelled beings that speak volumes of waste. They got pulled in by the glitz, only to be made fools by bait and switch.

What of Peeta, from 12, the District of poverty and negligence? Clove knows, somehow, that he has a weakness for beauty, that for all of his depth, the diamonds here shine bright enough to hook him, and pull him under the vast, iron sea. It's almost relieving, in a dark way, to know that won't be a problem. Not really.

Cato has to win. He has to win, and Peeta has to die for that to happen. Clove was done crying a long time ago. She's over it.

Still, they're screaming out there. Baying for blood and marching on the spot like pretty marionettes. She can't sleep at all like this, it's quite impossible. It's not just that of course, it's all of it, the heat of the season and the imminence of the Games and the youth, that terrible, infinite youth all over Cato's features when he sleeps and the knowledge that she could lose him, lose Peeta, lose her mind, in one fell swoop. No position is comfortable.

She shoots up in bed and looks around. The gadgetry is confusing and grand, and Clove doesn't need the clock on her wall, the one she hears in her dreams that laughs in her face, telling her the time. What's today? Everybody knows it.

Clove remembers last year. A score of ten, the same as Cato. And he had been so proud, and he had been so smug and above it all. Then, when they were alone together, he didn't dare touch her, but said he was glad, really, and that if anybody else was going to win, he wanted it be Clove. Not Girl on Fire, or Marvel, or anybody else.

(At the time, he was said insistently that she needed to win, to bring pride to their District. Clove knew, even at the time, that what Cato was trying to say, in his own obscure and roundabout way was that he wanted her safe, and that he did not want to kill her at all.

But Cato said it was all about pride. And that's the only excuse Clove had him give. )

Clove likes winter more than summer. She feels too hot in the sheets, and sticky, unclean, like she could rub her skin raw red of all of this vaingloriousness and still not be uncontaminated ever again. This place is full of toxins, and evils. Villainy wears many masks, perhaps the worst being virtue.

One more look at Cato and she's done for. Without remorse or hesitation, she gets up and flees, as literal as one can be when stiff and rheumatic from sleep. Clove doesn't want to go far at all. Instead, she thinks of the rain, she misses it. Instead of opting for the sounds of the city, or the cold air, she goes into the bathroom and closes the door.

The place is full of mirrors. Even behind the frosted glass of the shower, there are mirrors. Vanity is a strange thing. Clove has never cared too much, she prefers to use manipulation of emotions than skate by using looks, but, like anyone, she likes to feel beautiful. She likes feel desirable, even, and Clove doesn't look at her reflection because she doesn't want to see. It's a horrible feeling, doubt, and it can't be ignored, either. Clove can't just pretend she thinks Cato finds her beautiful.

The sun has yet to rise and help her to see clearly whatever they have become, lucky or otherwise, beautiful or ugly or broken or what have you. Clove steps under the stream of water that's blood-warm and heating up quickly. It's brave to try to be happy, just like Peeta says. To get out of the shape of misery, and just let the water wash anything away. She thinks about him for a second, how she'll always remember him, sitting across the room, with this smile, so knowing and masterful, so sure that his opinions were law. And they were, when it came to the redemption of the water.

(Cato isn't at all like that. He always says how water is a waste of a perfectly good glass, and then he'll go through the process of drinking, making mistakes, and pretending he doesn't remember. Then drinking a little more.)

Her hair falls heavy and drips down her left shoulder. She unties to plait absently. Peeta was always fascinated by the style; he said It reminded him of a friend. Clove knows she has started to refer to him in the past tense, did, had, was. He still is. Too young, and so slight, impossibly large and infinite and will be forgotten so quickly. The thought of Peeta, standing in that gymnasium, trying to impress the Gamemakers, seems almost impossible. She thinks of the Games, and then Peeta, separate. And then she thinks of the boy and his ideas and his loveliness, and she cannot divorce Peeta as a soul from his appearance.

So caught up in thought about him, when she feels a rush of sudden cold air, Clove is horrified.

"What are you doing?" Her voice only conveys the unmitigated shock, and she turns, giving Cato a view of her spine and nothing more. When he gives her a small chuckle, she turns and looks over her shoulder. "You're not allowed to just hop in,"

That stupid, incorrigible man with his stupid smile, says otherwise, and he just wanders in under the jet, still in in a shirt, and underwear. "Who says?" The voice bleeds through the steam and laughs on the surface of the mirrors. Clove can't stand him here, seeing her like this. She doesn't do vulnerability. At least when they fuck, when she cries out his name and bites his shoulder, they're equals, they're both as human as in need as eachother. Here, he as the advantage, and she wants to peel back his skin, have him try to understand how it feels inside.

But she doesn't do that. She keeps herself still, and she keeps her eyes on the floor, even when he puts his arms around her.

"They didn't exactly encourage us palling around together last year," She says, wistfully. It's not something they talk about an awful lot, though. It's just something that happened. Clove can barely recall the blur of interviews and Districts. Truth is, she doesn't want to.

Cato doesn't let go of her. " That was back when we were supposed to kill eachother, _darling_," He says, far too casually. They were never enemies. At least, not in her memory at all. Now? Who knows where they stand? "Besides," He grins. "I'm about to fight to the death, and you're already pregnant. There aren't an awful lot of shenanigans we can get up to,"

Clove snorts. "What?" His arms shift around her, as if annoyed.

"Shenanigans," She mumbles. "You're full of it," She elbows out of his grip and turns with a dramatic roll of her hips to face the wall of bottles, her heavy rope of hair switching shoulder and catching Cato on the arm. He lets her up, pushing the heir out of his face that has begun to droop, heavy with water. The blonde has gone all mousy. She takes a mental picture at the same time as she tries to make out like she's comfortable here, under his gaze. "Now get out of my damn shower,"

"I told Peeta," Suddenly, the water feels so much colder. The steam feels cumbersome and heavy, no longer dancing fancy pirouettes on the mirrors or diving off the deep end of a Capitol cigar, but dense and eerie, like the graveyard clouds.

"Told him what?" Clove manages. Cato blinks the water from his yes.

"I told him about helping him to win. If I can't," Clove shouldn't have to hear that. She shouldn't have to figure what she'll do if he goes. Because she'll have to watch, helplessly, counting the kicks from her (pale, blonde) daughter between thoughts of the enemy, of Peeta. Instead of saying anything, Clove stays motionless.

"What did he say?"

Cato smiles. "You're looking a little flushed, sweetheart, maybe you should sit down," But he can never just le it lie. As if she wasn't embarrassed enough, but he finds the nerve to lean over and take her face with the side of his hand. Clove bats him away.

"You can still drown in three inches of water," She says, tiredly. If only she had stirred softer, or more quietly, or thought to shower with a shirt on. To have herself his for devouring is scary. And what if Cato finds her ugly? She doesn't know what she'll do if he leaves her, if he makes a fool of her again.

"I'm serious," Cato says, in an oddly [playful tone, which in itself seems oxymoronic. He gets closer, eye-to-eye and reads over the volume of her face. "You're blushing," He says, very quietly. Clove makes an inhuman noise that's supposed to be laughter.

"I never blushed in my whole damn life," Clove tells him, fiercely. But she has blushed, and right now, under his scrutiny. The white of his shirt is seer and it makes her mad and sick in the night to see his skin, the form of a perfect physical specimen. Still, he's looking like he knows exactly what he sees, and nothing is more terrifying. God, would she miss him. Cato is stupid and foolish and arrogant and as necessary to life as oxygen. "What're you looking like that for?"

Cato says nothing. She realises he's trying to memorise her face.

"It's no good," She tells him in a mumble. "I'm not like Glimmer was. Pretty." She shrugs. "At least, not up close,"

"Clove-"

"Save it," She says, as if to finalise things, and pulls away, going back to her water and her reveries and all of the silent nightmares that she cannot share. "Dry off," And for once in all the time that Clove has known him and hated him and loved him and been embarrassed in front of him, the rarest of them all, he complies, without any argument.

Clove watches him go, and how young is he? On the cusp of nineteen. A few weeks from it, and would they have him justify why they should keep him here? Clove feels herself grow angry when she thinks about the others begging Sponsors, taking money when they have no reason for it. Cato has a reason for life, he had a future, and he has promises to keep, one especially. Crucified Christ, she steadies herself against the tile and wonders how in God's name she could do any of it alone.

For a very long time she stand under the water, and tries to let it redeem her. It's just like Peeta says, because he always seems to be right. If this really is the end of the world, she's going to need to confess her sins.

They eat breakfast in their bedroom, away from the stylists and escorts, and from Cato's District partner, Delysia. Clove remembers the woman's face, and the flicker of hope when Clove has sobbed, in front of all of them, had begged to volunteer. Nobody listened, and she's tired of it, why won't they listen to her when she swears she's doing what's best?

"You have about an hour and a half," Clove says to him, carefully, when she's laying on her back and staring up at the ceiling. Colour and sunlight try to enter the room, but are halted at the blinds and frisked. Neither of them are ready to face up to the day, and its challenges. Each minute means the Games are closer and hungrier and even more real.

Cato's voice sounds very small. "What should I do?"

So she rests her head against his heart to assure herself that he must feel because she can heart it beating, pumping sentiment around his body. "Make them remember you,"

He makes a noise of frustration. "How?"

"Don't pick a sword," Right away, Clove has the answer. Cato is sure he loves her, eve for that. She's cleverer than people will ever know. Cato is a fool, and he rushes where somebody as wise as Clove would never go, but wisdom means never to fall in love, so she cannot be so wise. "Don't pick up a weapon." It's in the way that Clove looks at him. She wraps a hand around his, crushing his fingers against eachother, in demand.

"Hold them accountable," She says quietly. "For something you've lost, or something you'll lose,"

They both know what she means.

And so, when Cato waits in the wing, wound up tighter than the clock-face, the idea comes to him suddenly, as he puzzles over weaponry. He thinks of knives, and then remembers, feels foolish, but remembers some strange, unimportant even that seems to make all of the difference now. In the Capitol they stop the presses when Finnick Odair or somebody similar hints roundly at a lover, but there's no justice for the other names, for the blood of the innocent. Cato knows he was lucky to make it out alive the first time.

But nobody Is a victor by chance.

He goes in with his imperiousness surgically attached, for it wouldn't do to seem nervous. Cato doesn't do nervous, he does arrogance and smirking. He must look so relaxed and cool to the watching Gamemakers, most of whom he recognises from last year, and one or two that are unfamiliar. They loaf around and talk idly, with their eyes on the tribute set to impress, and with their eyes they are chewing Cato up and spitting him out. He pulls a smooth smile. Somebody from the small audience speaks up. "Cato Almasy, District 2,"

And then he is alone.

To start with, Cato finds himself the goriest red dye, and slathers the end of a spear with it, until the thing looks fresh from a grievous murder. He throws it across the gym into a small, harmless dummy, that he proceeds to paint with red and bits of pulp. The wound looks very realistic, actually. He's almost proud. They have a few scraps of clothes for past arena at camouflage, which he uses the dress the dummy with. He half-zips the jacket up by the wound and lays the thing in the middle of the floor, for the Gamemakers to see.

Then, thinking of Clove in death's stead, he selects as many of the plants and flowers as he can, ones that aren't harmful or deadly-looking. Time isn't his friend here, and Cato starts to hurry himself, going back to the dummy, and beginning to dress the thing in vibrant shades of green and lilac and magnolia. Wreaths bunch round the face and hands and body, framing the thing, making it seem beautiful. None of this he agonises over too much.

Then Cato finds the softer paints, and while he has ever had gentle hands or been much for visuals at all, he forces himself to take time, and I mean precision with every detail, painting the thing with dark skin and dark eyes and lips, for her lips were parted just-so, she could have been sleeping if it were not for the wound.

Resting beneath her hands, he lays in plain sight a small, twisted gladius. It glimmers up t the Gamemakers, not coy, but mourning. Shooting back the reflections of them in vast fabrics with good food, for the first time blamed for something, anything. Around her, he feels the need to use words, because the image rendered does not say explicitly how he feels, and they need to know, they will be made to know that these are not Games.

He chooses the darkest black paint and tries to think of something clever, and something philosophical and metaphorical, that Peeta or maybe even Clove would say. They always have the right words and feelings. Cato only has his brutality, being neglected by this last stand in remembering. Solidarity amongst those who went under. The time is slipping fast away and he knows he isn't brilliant or metaphorical, he has to be honest. The words have to mean something everywhere.

With the fingers, he finally writes. It takes many minutes to manage those four words.

"For your viewing pleasure," He says, with a dramatic bow, before heading out, away from their stares of knowing, and confusion, and wondering what it all means. He has done all that he could with Clove's advice, and even if he's afraid of getting a 0, he wonders if it's possible to manage a 12. The room is silent as eh leaves. Whatever Gloss, or Cashmere, or even Delysia had mustered up until this point, Cato knows he has blown it out of the water with just four words.

Above the flowers, in black paint: 'She took my knife.'

Cato feels somehow better. As if he has gone to confession and vomited up his emotional crises and eels empty, refreshed, and lighter. He takes the elevator up to his floor and hurries to Clove, telling her every detail, from how she looked asleep, to the words around the dummy, each word more on fire than Katniss ever was. And when he's done, Clove swallows.

"Why Rue?" She asks in a tiny voice. Cato feels his chest swell with pride.

"I want them to know it wasn't Marvel that killed that girl. Not really,"

Clove lets out a bout of nervous laughter and flashes him a trepidatious smile. "You sure better hope they like metaphors,"

It isn't the last, either.

Much later in the day, the reply comes. A small, impossibly plain boy from 12 steps into the light, the same on that scuffled with a Career, and stood there looking too sure of things to be a tribute. You wouldn't recognise him as the Surplus, or the Baker, or even the canary. And for the moment, he isn't. The boy fetches paints and dyes, and a large piece of canvas to paint on. No knives or bows or maces. Not fit for the Capitol's audience, swaying with bloodlust and want for violence. Something more dangerous. Conspiratorial, even.

Peeta isn't like Cato. His hands are small and delicate and he has a sensitivity for colour and shape. There' so nerves of confidence. He seems wholly absorbed in the movement of his hands, trying to get a just-so shade of shadow or a more realistic eye colour. The small audience are sceptical at first. They have seen this before, no doubt, but with Rue's name refreshed in their minds and all of other Cato's implications, it almost seems weak. Unoriginal. The finished product is always the final word.

I wish I could say Peeta paints the Capitol in a nice way, or that it's easy to look at, easy to sympathise with. I wish I could say the metaphor wasn't dark, and that somewhere deep In the picture is a buried montage of Katniss with red. Ugly colours and symbols are used. Inferences are made that are not nice or pretty. And Peeta is too absorbed to realise this will hurt him. This spark of rebellion will be contained and systematically extinguished.

In itself, the picture is a mass of bodies, all of fallen tributes, of Thresh, and Oscar Verbinius, and Glimmer and Katniss, most of all, stacked high into the shape of a mountain. At the top of the mountain, in the distance a blood-red sun hangs, with the emblem of the capitol burnt onto it's face. The gore and mud and forest makes the piece feel claustrophobic and haunting, as if the trees themselves are bleeding, as if the place is burning.

And at the top of the pile of bodies is a single character, easily distinguishable, staring out at the blood-red sun and the product of massacre. Peeta's love. Not Katniss, but the other one, untouched by the Games, and kept safe from harm. Peeta leaves them with more writing, but no words.

'It's a beautiful day.'


	26. Act 6, Scene 2

The 74th Hunger Games: a Training score of 10, and 3-1 odds of winning. It's all so mathematical.

Cato isn't playing the numbers, he never was. He's playing twenty-three tributes. It's not as easy as addition or multiplication; it's deeper than that, and gorier. Three to one didn't mean anything to Cato last year. It sure as hell didn't mean anything when he killed the boy from three, in such blinding, rapturous rage. It didn't mean anything when Clove started to scream.

What can he say for this year? The thought of a sword, heavy and balanced, is not a pleasing one. It surprises him how easy it is to put his hands just-so, and tear through the vertebrate of another person. It's the noise, that bile-inducing crunch of bones and cartilage grinding together. But what Cato remembers most when he hears their screams in his nightmares is the ease of it. How simple it would be to do it again.

That's nothing to do with numbers. It's conveniently ignored when they teach about winning in two. To win, they say, costs great commitment and a sense of patrimony for the District. But, really, to kill, to win? It takes something unnamed, but beautiful, purer than innocence, more necessary then love, wrenches it away and slaughters it.

Whatever that is, when Cato wakes in a cold sweat under the blankets, unable to find Clove, unable to breathe, he wishes for it.

Morgue to love. At least when Cato returns to his floor, with dye on his hands, with the name of that little girl gone from his mind but not from his heart, he knows he won't be alone. How do the others do it? To win alone is unthinkable. To have the Capitol adore you, but nobody really love you. It is curious how people can be both so loved and unloved. More curious is how people can be so despised and so loved. One only needs to be married to know the feeling of resentment and compassion that match eachother.

Well, that's Clove for you. He's thinking about her when his eyes find her. Cato's soul climbs up his throat and peeks out of them to get a feel for her. Because last night he talked in his sleep and slept in his walk and walked in unconsciousness, or at least in his dreams, and he had been dreaming of her. It seems the best Cato could do was a shade, never quite capturing her beauty. Clove isn't picture-pretty. It's in her expression. Her beauty is animate. A challenge would be for anybody to dare recreate it.

That's the thing. People are always choosing to imitate people who are inherently unimitatable.

She's staring at him, with this prayer on her mouth like she's mumbling shaker hymns under her breath. The devil's in the bible belt, without a spoke, but she's wise as Solomon. Cato doesn't know what he expects, for her to ask or shout or remain as stoic as she is, but there is an art in her unpredictability.

He coughs, nervously. "I painted that girl, from last ye-" Clove shakes her head, now standing so close she's on his toes. She smells like lilacs and home, the colour of her hair is like the summer of night back in two but bright as her bones that betray her, love carried to her by her feet.

"Don't talk," She says. Her lips are red and he loves her like this. They weren't exactly married in a single bed. Now she slips her eyes shut and they're kissing, she feels warm and lovely. There's a fever in her skin, pale as wintry cream but there's nothing cold about her here. He can feel her heartbeat talking to him through her chest. She shivers in her clothes and stares at him like they've not spoken in centuries.

Don't talk? He has nothing to say. Clove's hands hook around him and pull him under this iron sea. The sunlight is overrated, he would rather drown here, intoxicated by this psiren, so lovely, too lovely to exist, and her eyes are black like darkness that's guided, that you need nor light nor eyes to see the way in. And he's sure he loves her in the best way possible, never expecting anything of her, and he's so sure until she opens her eyes and he's surprised.

For just a second he had expected something else. Bluer and greener and not black or mysterious but cool like the water of the Silverflow in summer, and younger, more playful, the same amount of suffering, but somehow different, starved and smart and then a name forms first in his pulse and then on his lips. He's surprised by her eyes. He finally forms a word.

"Clove," He gasps out, one hand inviting her, on the side of her face, and the other on her heart, pushing her away. Cato is damn glad he had said her name, because he had just been distracted, so suddenly, by the thought of Peeta. It's in no way jealous or romantic or resentful, but the thought appears suddenly, from nothing, and he watches it march, in death's stead. "Let me breathe," He finishes the thought. Unaware of his thoughts, Clove moves away, put out somewhat. This isn't where things usually go.

"I'm going to miss you," She says, in a very rare moment of emotional openness. It's because these moments are so rare that Cato isn't sure what to say. He knows that she will miss him, when he goes, and she'll miss him even mourn if he really does go. They spend more time together than people think. Cato tries to think about a day without her, but even waking alone baffles him. Where does he from without seeing her and knowing for certain that no harm will come to her? Yeah, maybe Clove doesn't need him, or maybe she does, that's all unclear. But he knows for certain he needs her more than she needs him.

So that when he wakes under the covers in a cold sweat, Clove is the one, the only one, to lean over and quit him with gentle sighs and broad easy touches and this whispers, like a mantra 'shh, shh, it's just a trick'.

"Come on," He says, in a more playful tone. Cato despises love for one simple reason: they're young and they're alive and they are in a beautiful place and right now they should be having the time of their lives and saving the serious stuff for later. But even committed, waist-deep in vows to remain faithful (which he broke) and vows to keep his girl(s) safe (which he has kept), they have to face it all now. There's no liking in love, or leave to look if liking move.

"You can't wait to get away from me," He jokes. Instead of going deeper, undressing emotionally and leaving them both at odds, she plays along.

"I can't wait to get away from you snoring," She smiles like she does when she thinks she's won something and turns away, walking down into the circle of chairs around the faux-fire, complete with hearth. "I might finally get some sleep," Hot on her heels, Cato sits right beside her. He's physical, and right away puts an arm around her.

"I do _not_ snore," It makes Clove laugh.

"You do," She assures him. "I never get any peace from you," In the spirit of it all, Cato looks at her all mock-shock. So she goes on, because if Clove isn't laughing then she's going to burst into tears. Seeing him like this, in his training uniform, a year older but centuries wiser, more broken. Who was that boy, the one who fought for pride and won with shame? He has gone where neither could follow, into the darkness. "And when you wake up-" She continues, smiling through all of it. "You hair sticks up like this…" Her fingers make a fork where her fringe is. At least it makes him laugh.

"Yeah, well." He wets his lips. "You grumble in you sleep, _love of mine_, it's not the most alluring quality."

She scoffs. "That one time."

"No," He corrects her, right away, because he's always been like that, superior, holier-than-thou, and she hates it and loves it and sometimes doesn't know what to think. Without it, without any of it, what are they? On his own, Cato likes to drink, and on her own, Clove gets paranoid, she tries to find escapes in stupid places. "That one time especially, but every time,"

"It doesn't matter what you get in Training," She says, and drops her head onto his shoulder. There are layers between them, not that he counts, not that he cares. Right here, like this, she's just warm enough and close enough, and Cato doesn't want her like that. For all that he's physical; he wants her to know, somehow, how he feels, as if Cato ever _felt anything_ in his damn life. "Anything you need," Clove promises him. "I'll get you anything."

And she sounds just like everybody back home when she says "Everybody knows you're going to live,"

Because Cato usually believes what he's told. He believed them when they said 'win', when they said 'kill' and he asked 'who?' and they said 'run' and he said 'where?' and they said 'jump' and Cato asked 'how high?' every damn time. He can't believe, not even Clove, who is honest, she's worth more than a million of them, she always has been, killer or not, wife or not, mother or not. Everybody knows he's going to live. He's a favourite. His odds are good.

But he's not playing the numbers. He's playing twenty-three other tributes. One of them is Peeta.

He ruminates on the boy, and their alliance and the lion carving all night. He sleeps not a minute, even after Clove is done with this world, even when she sleeps in her talk and talks in her sleep and then starts to become agitated. The dreams are worse this time, and when she wakes there are tears making her eyes shine like starlight. She's crying and clutching at him, her whole body trembling, and it's a bad time to tell her how beautiful she is so Cato just strokes her hair.

"You're okay," He whispers to her. "Hey," Clove makes a sharp, choking noise. "Hey, we're okay. It's just a trick, it's just a trick."

"No, it can't-.." Her throat is all hoarse and it's the way she grabs and scrambled, like she needs to get out of this room and this city and this country. It's like she needs to hide from the Games entirely. It doesn't matter where they go. It's unavoidable.

"Clove-" He tries.

"And I didn't tell them anything," She rambles. Every time is different. This time has her believing, and it's scary. "I didn't—not even when they-…_help me, Cato_," For a very long time, she presses herself into him and doesn't move, but after a while, her trembling weakens a little and she stops crying. So they stay there for an infinite amount of time before she sits up and wipes at her face. "Don't let me fall asleep," She asks him.

Cato has no objections either way, seeing as he isn't going to get any sleep. "Why?" he asks.

"I'm afraid I'll dream again," She says, sounding too small, and too young, and not nearly fierce enough. "If I fall asleep, will you wake me up?"

"Yes," He promises her. In the night, Clove falls asleep four times, and every single time, he shakes her gently until her eyes snap open. They stay in a blessed silence through midnight and then sunrise. They're awake when the escort comes rapping on the door in series of three, calling them to arms for the day.

At midday, they announce the Training scores.

In irish green, as is the colour this year, Caesar looks especially freakish next to Claudius, fairly neutral in lime. They open with chit-chat, as usual, which nobody in the room cares for. All of them are equal parts nervous and agonised but most of all tense. Luckily, Cato is from 2, and the wait is pretty short. Delysia comes first anyway, sitting there looking expressionless, as usual.

They start with District 1. And for some reason, maybe it's his eyes, that Cato had seen in the back of his mind, but he thinks not of himself, or his own score. That's in the hands of somebody else. He's thinking about the rest of them; the pack of Careers and (mostly) Peeta, who could charm the world with three worlds, or even two and a smile. Did he charm the Gamemakers? Well, they're going to find out.

District 1 score two nines, respectively, which puts the rest of them at ease. If Cato got a ten last year, he can only get better. Or at least, that's what the escort says, who has no real idea that Cato had chosen a different tactic, under Clove's advice. It is good advice when he thinks about it, because as they all know, the paintbrush is mightier than the sword, even if it isn't deadlier.

They seem smug to give Delysia an eight, which is more than Cato expected, and she doesn't seem too disheartened. The stylists make it out like an eight will set her for life in the Games, they're kind, but ultimately, it isn't kindness as much as stupidity. And then Clove grips Cato's hand and looks at the television, scared for him, knowing it isn't safe like last year. He was all arrogance and now he's passive.

He barely reacts when they say 'ten'. Just like last year. And just like this year. A ten. One-zero. It takes a full three seconds then they break out into cheers and cries and congratulations. He's done well, or well enough. It puts Clove to rest, and she gives him the smallest sile.

"Not bad, _darling_," She chides. But they both know what she means. They say nothing but keep on watching. For his sake. The boy.

"Peeta Mellark," They say. "With a score of ten," And it wipes everything out that proceeds it.

How could a mere Surplus, a nowhere boy from 12 achieve a ten? It puts him on par with Cato and the male tribute from four, as the best contender, and even above Gloss, and Cashmere on ability. Cato is amazed, to say the least, and what he does feel isn't jealousy. It's strange and enduring, and he wonders what it means precisely when the boy's name disappears and the feeling lessens. But of course, he doesn't tell Clove that.

Plenty to do, plenty to get done.

They get him ready for the interview at great length. Cato has never been all that vain, really. He knows that he's passable to most, and he knows that Clove finds him attractive, and that's really all he cares about. Here, he has to appeal to all of them, to be good with his weapon and be quick-witted and kind and committed and interesting and funny. It's like-…he can't be all of those things, he's just a man. But he can look good, at the very least.

Last year this was worse. It's all he can do to keep silent as they bleach bits of hair and change the blue of his eyes to make them bluer and give colour back to his cheeks and dramatic highlights, as if he's already under a spotlight. When they're done with the fretting and the most caustic of the prepping, he catches a mirror and barely realises it's him. They haven't done much to his features, not on account of conservation, but because they'll want the audience and sponsors be able to recognise him in the arena.

The biggest theme, of course, is that he's one half of a pair of victors. That's the important thing to keep in mind. And the Capitol adore their victors. To play up to the fact that Clove is going to be trying to save his ass at every turn, and that they're married and that Clove is pregnant.

So they dress him in white and black. A loose bowtie and a white shirt, freshly-starched and crisp. It slides on well enough. And as he's dressing Clove interrupts, as she'll be watching from the audience, playing up to her angle. Not red, like last time, all fiery and fierce. They want to mute her impossible volume. Another plain, white dress. All she's missing is a set of wings, I swear, and she could fly away from the mess.

"We've got time." She says, with a small smile. He finishes up at his own leisure, and then invites her over to the single moment in the single bed. So they make good use of their time, and Cato tries to remember everything about her, and every single noise she makes before they go, down the darkening corridors and near to the screams and the bright lights. Cato has no idea what he's going to say.

After all, there's no time left to be lazy. He looks at the few tell-tale creases on the skirt of her dress and she kisses him again, in the elevator. Cato knows how to play this game, he won before and he'll win again. All it is seems to be endurance of his fellow man, and Cato keeps that in mind when he's standing behind Delysia, in the wing. Each outfit has it's own personality, and what he wants most of all is to see how Peeta's going to win them over this time, but he gets not the chance. It all happens very fast.

As the first up, Cashmere tells Caesar that she cannot stop crying over the tragedy for the Capitol citizens, having to lose 23 victors. Gloss remarks upon it, too, but much less dramatic, and says how he wishes there could be something done, to soften their loss. It's almost comical. Nobody in the Capitol is going to get murdered in cold blood, but that seems easy to forget when an audience of them blink at you, hungrily. Then Delysia, who Caesar struggles to work with but muddles through, talking about her Games, and Cato is reminded that she won using a tomahawk. It was bloody, but she recalls it with such a casual malice. Even the blood-baying audience dull a little.

Then they're directing Cato up to side-stage and he can see the edge of the upper tier and his host, in freakish, alarming green, and he's talking. Belatedly, Cato realises that was his introduction. He knows he has to move now. Feeling like a very sorry, very old man, he shuffles up the side-stages steps and towards center-stage, where he does not belong, and for a second he's blind. The lights do not adjust for him, but his eye become used to them, beating down on him.

There's a second, before he reaches Caesar, when Cato is walking, and he turns, looking out into a sea of colour. He realises in horror, deaf from the rifle hits and inhuman cheering, that an audience is watches, greater than most of his class at the academy, and even then, he would be nervous ~(not that he would dare to say). They twinkle like stars but there's something duplicity to, it's all around him and underneath him.

There are too many of them to try and find Clove. Outnumbered, Cato manages to reach Caesar's side, who's voice is indistinguishable, and then they're both sitting, the stage circular as if they're on a plate and ready to be devoured. Cato cannot hear for the life of him, and he's still so mesmerised by the audience, still so desperate to find Clove. Then he registers the last half of Caesar's statement.

"…only yesterday that you were sitting here after your victory with Clove," The host looks at him expectantly. What can he say to that? Cato is lost, floundering, trying to find Clove, but he can't, and now he's on his own, well and truly. How badly he fucks up determines how much Clove can get for him. Truth be told, Cato doesn't have the dignity to starve or freeze to death.

"Yeah," He says, distantly. "I can't say I saw it coming," Caesar smiles like they're friends but Cato could go on living like he never met the man, despite the fact they're sitting no more than three feet apart.

"Is she here tonight?"

Cato's through closes up and he cannot force out any breath. "Yes," He says, after too long a time. "Yes, she's here," They natter away at that. He tries to play it cool, and having years of experience, Cato looks confident, even if he sounds chronically enfeebled. He looks at the audience, trying to find a flash of innocence between the gaudy pinks and greens. On the second tier he finds her, centre seating, staring at him with a smile, like she's so proud.

"I think we were all very-" Caesar looks as if he's about to devour something particularly beautiful. It's in that tone, mock tenderness and treachery, all false generosity and lies. "Very stirred, I should say, when we saw you both at the Reaping,"

_No. Not here, not in front of all of you. That was between us._ But nobody is listening to Cato and he can' exactly say that anyway, so he just looks out at Clove and tries to imagine he's speaking to her and her only, and not the lurid blues from the front row.

"What was going through your head when Clove tried to volunteer?"

He swallows. Not even he knows the answer, having tried so damn hard to forget only to have his efforts shoved in his face. They only have three minutes, but I'll tell you now, if Cato only had three minutes to live he'd do this again, because it feels like an eternity.

"I thought-" She looks at him. Her eyes demand honesty. What would Peeta say? What has Peeta says. It's weak, but it's something. "I wasn't scared of dying. I was scared of losing her," Of course, that gets the audience going, all sympathy and sweetness, but from her tier, Clove rolls her eyes like she doesn't believe it. That's the watered-down version, too. Cato could go for miles, but there's no time to waste.

"I have to say." Caesar continues, with this queer, knowing smile. "It really took my breath away. To see you win, last year, together, was something, wasn't it, folks?" The audience agree and assure him. Clove stays silent. She wouldn't know. "How do you feel about going back into the Games?"

Clove raises her eyebrows. Cato shrugs. "Honestly?" He gets out a cool laugh. "One minute, I'm at home with Clove, and we're all safe, and we find out we're having a girl-"

Cato has opened a can of worms right there. There's nothing Caesar can say to reel in the uproar from the audience. The idea that he's going to be sundered before he even gets to see her is a crime, and they seem only to be waking up to it now, with cries and boos and hisses. Clove, herself, she has gone redder than a fire truck and is trying to hide her face in her hands, away from the Capitol citizens. Cato has just blown every the first three tributes had said to smithereens.

"And the next, I'm here." Cato clears is throat. "I have to win," He tells them, and they totally believe it. The effect is almost magical. "I have to win it for them,"

Caesar tries to derail that train of thought. "Last year you spoke a lot about bringing pride to your District-"

Cato interrupts. "And I did. I won, with Clove." They cheer again, clearly on Cato's side.

"She's mentoring you this year, is that right?" Cato nods.

"She is,"

"It must be very stressful," he simpers. " Especially given that she is –how far along is she now?" That's the question on all of their, lip-mouths and Cato leans back, alarmed by the eagerness of the audience, like wolves at the slaughter. She's already embarrassed, the poor thing. Clove has not slept and when she as, she cried and now Cato is cornered into saying far too much because if he doesn't hell look ignorant, and rude.

Clove just blushes and looks down at the floor. That's permission enough, he supposed. He calculates. "She must be-" The numbers roll in his head. "Twenty-seve –no, twenty-eight weeks, about,"

That doesn't seem enough. " Has she given you any advice, as of yet, for the Games?"

Cato shrugs. "Try not to die, mostly," That gets a fair laugh, and they seem to like it enough. Most are confused as to what they should make of him, who once was so brutal is now so life-giving and sweet, nearly.

The buzzer goes and Cato has never been gladder to be gone in his whole life. Is hand above his shoulder, they say. "Our previous victor, Cato Almasy!" And Jesus Christ how they cheer. It's like nothing he has ever heard, and then it's all over.

He climbs off of the stage and into the left wing, finished, done, with everybody talking about him. Clove greets him with a slap. "You really had to play up to that angle, didn't you?"

Cato feels a little cornered. "What did you want me to do?" She waves a hand, clearly a bit tormented.

"Forget about it. I'm tired," That's code for ending a conversation, always. In the wing, they have seats and screens, to watch the other tributes. He leads over and they sit, their portion of the evening done with. It's all very empty. No other tributes are around, and a few dull Avoxes watch them kindly. Clove curls up and rests her head on his shoulder, falling fast into sleep.

For once in his life, Cato follows her without question, slipping into an unprovoked but restful sleep.

He dreams about chasing a canary down a mine shaft, trying to catch in a cage of fingers, but each time he gets close, the bird chirps at him and flits away, and then all around him the mine starts to collapse and he can feel every bit of blood and air and life squeezed from his lungs as he's crushed, in pursuit of the bird.

On waking, Cato has found they've caught a canary.

He remains on the seats far off-stage, Clove still fast sleep, and he looks around, a little embarrassed. So as not to get looks from the tributes that have arrived in the time they've been asleep, he shakes her to waking and then turns back to the television. She's about to speak when she catches sight of him. Peeta, that is.

The boy is dressed in a similar yellow-and-white suit as last time, only not glowing right now, and he looks neater, more fitted and comfortable. It's clear as Cato refocuses, back to being conscious, that Peeta and Caesar make an effortless duo of entertainment, in the easy give-and-take and quick exchanges between them. they both watch, awestruck completely, by this dark horse.

"And what was it like?" Caesar has a real smile on his face and he leans forward to address Peeta, slouched a little, his ankle resting on his other knee, looking so casual and easy, damn that boy. Cato could bet his hat the Peeta has the audience charmed already, and he's probably make a fortune. "Being a Surplus in District 2?"

_Oh, Jesus_. Here's the time to hear it, Cato supposes.

The boy smiles. "It was-" And then thinks, a bit, before answering. "It was different. I mean, I was so lucky. My patrons were very understanding and generous, you know. They were really good people. I didn't ever get beaten or collared." Conveniently, the boy uses no names, and doesn't recall the incident where Cato took his tiny fist and crushed every bone to make a gory human hand smoothie. They're both pretty glad, as it goes, and the tiniest bit flattered.

"One of your patrons is a tribute in here, too," Caesar says, in an absorbed voice. "Have you spoken, since before the Games?"

Peeta suddenly dies up a little. His movements become jerky and the smile goes from his eyes. "Yes,"

"I'm sure it must be nice to be in here as equals. You both have just as good a chance of winning," He says, kindly, even though it isn't true. Then Peeta does what nobody has ever really said outright before and it shocks and humbles everybody into silence. Even if the sentiment is borrowed, Cato feels his chest swell with pride when Peeta shrugs.

"I don't want to kill anybody,"

"He's a lover, folks, not a fighter," Caesar laughs, and they all laugh with him. Even Peeta manages a half-smile, which has the women tripping over themselves. Cato hasn't ever really looked at {Peeta, but now, into his light, here with all the attention on the boy, Cato respects that he's handsome, with endearing features and this charm, something so disarming that can't really be put into words. He can see what Clove had been looking to like.

"Now speaking of Lovers," Caesar begins, hinting roundly. "Is there a special somebody back home?" Cato remembers Katniss. This must be difficult to hear. Still, the boy remains cool and unreadable and desirable, in his own strange way.

Peeta even manages a laugh. "No, not really,"

Caesar refuses the suggestion on all fronts. "Well," He turns to the audience, "A little birdie told me that your painted something on the Training room floor." Peeta starts to blush, drying up again like he had done earlier. "And that in this painting, there was a certain person,"

"There was," Peeta says. "So, yeah, there is somebody. But-…"

"But?" Caesar grins. They're all just eating this up. That boy has to be very careful about his next words.

"Well, we never even touched until the parade," Peeta confesses. They eat up the words he throws out like a fire consumes fuel. They 'ooh' and 'ahh' and cry out sympathies as if all on cue. As if all human emotion is rehearsed. Clove is now sat up and focused very much on the screen.

"Well, Peeta," The host says, insincerely. "If you go out there, and you win this entire Quell, you can have whomever your heart desires." The start to scream, and Caesar starts to laugh, but they settle when they realise Peeta is shaking his head.

"I don't think winning is going to help me at all," The boy confesses.

"Whyever not?" Caesar asks, in a mock-affected tone. It seems to take a lifetime for the boy to speak, gritting his teeth and getting himself emotionally and physically prepared for the bombshell that will wipe out a few other tributes, but obviously not Cato and his dramatic interview. They all wait on the edge of their seats. Hell, Cato is on the edge of his.

"That's because…" He sighs.

"ho is it, Peeta?" Caesar asks, helpfully.

"It's… " The boy stammers nervously. His face goes red and his fingers wring like tormented snakes and at long last the boy can keep it in no longer. "It's my patron."

And that does it. You can barely hear his departure over the screams of the crowds, and the want for romance and blood and love and list. Cato feels more than betrayed. It's not enough to kiss Clove, or to bewitch her with words. But to confess his love for her on television? That's a dirty tactic, worse than that; it severs any alliance between them. Cato is not going to have Peeta dancing on his grave, with Clove's is and favour all his. The boy is going to pay. Cato doesn't hesitate. He rises and gets up. Clove follows right behind.

"Cato!" She struggles after him, much slower. "Cato, please, you don't understand-"

He understands perfectly.

Peeta is just rounding the corner when Cato grabs him, and shoves him high against a marble wall. The boy gasps out, his legs battering and his hands scarping and terror in his eyes because he has been here before and he knows he can't win. What can Clove do? She's far too fragile at this point. If it were not for that, she would have jumped on Cato's back and scratched his eyes in. Instead, Peeta can feel Cato crushed his windpipe as he holds the boy against the wall.

"What the hell was that?" The man screams. "You think that was funny, Surplus? You tink this is some kind of joke?"

Clove tugs on Cato's shoulder. "Please-" He pays her no mind.

"You shut up, I'm through with it!" And then he turns back to the boy. "You tell me she doesn't want you, and then you tell everybody you love her? Is that how this works?" A Peacekeepers jerks him backwards and off of Peeta, who slips onto the floor and chokes out, rubbing where finger-marks will bruise in hours to come. Cinna appears at his side in a minute, muttering assurances, and now everybody is staring at Cato like he's some kind of monster.

"You're gonna be the first one I get, 12!"

But Clove pulls him away and saps him, hard. He wants to hit her back, but resists. "You need to calm down," She urges him.

"He just professed his damn love to you-"

"You weren't listening, were you?" She hisses. They're all staring at him. Cato feels his face go flush.

"I heard him, alright." He nods. "That damn Surplus just told the whole damn world he's in love with you."

Clove dips her head and shakes it, in this serious way that always lets Cato know when he's in a danger zone, or when he's completely misunderstood something. What's to misunderstand? Peeta clearly said he loves his patron. That she was the star of his little painting.

"No, Cato," Clove sounds ashamed. She leans into him and speaks quietly. "You were the one in the damn painting." And then it all makes sense. Peeta has two patrons. And it isn't Clove that Peeta is 'in love' with.

It's Cato.


	27. Act 6, Scene 3

There is no such thing as a grace period. Smile. Tomorrow is going to be worse.

Do you ever, in your head, go back and look for those early warning signs? Because Cato can't sleep, and they're going mad outside of the windows, and in his head he's trying to figure out why. How could such a small, nondescript Surplus cause so much trouble? He's changed things, even before these Games did, and now there's no foreseeable future, he has to thin, to work things all out. But, Jesus, there's no time, and he can't think clearly, not when he can see Peeta's eyes burning in the darkness of his mind.

When did this travesty start? Because the boy has never made eyes at him, or looked to like or loved more deeply than in secret. Cato is scared, frankly, by that kind of sympathy, or that kind of feeling. And now, they're going ballistic outside, they're saying that the looks Peeta and Cato have shared over ivy-covered balustrades have been smouldering enough to set middle-Panem on fire and leave the non-believers smouldering in the cornfields. Or that the letters penned in secret to anther by flickering candlelight? Each and every word a symphony unto itself, a clash of consonants and clarinets and the deepest music imaginable.

But there were no letters, or looks. This 'love' has Cato blindsided. It has sprung from Peeta's only enemy, his only hate.

The alliance is more than off. Cato won't be able to stand that look, the one Peeta has when he's been betrayed. Cato isn't sure how to feel about flying off the handle and going for the boy. What is he supposed to do? How is he supposed to process that information? He can't. He has a duty, first and most importantly, to keep alive, to win and get home, for Clove.

So he's just lying here, wide-awake, not even shutting his eyes. The room is bathed in darkness, but he'll see and think the same things behind closed-lids. It seems that Clove doesn't care at all, laying on her side, facing away from him, fast asleep. But then Cato remembers that she has hasn't slept, that her dreams were awful, and he lets her be, hearing every word her breathing could form. He wonders if she's jealous, but Clove isn't the jealous type. And she would never, ever admit that to Cato.

He thinks some more about the Games. About the arena, but it's hard. It's even harder when Clove is warm and inviting, when it would be easy for him to slip a hand over her hipbone and kiss her neck the way she likes. Rally, she's not even thirty centimetres away and she wouldn't refuse him, this once, last night on earth. No, she'd be obliging and sigh like she does when he guard is down and nobody could believe how tender she really is, between being hard and cruel. It would be beautiful, but difficult.

What's the point of this one night, this last night, when he knows they'll take him? When he knows that he has to go anyway? Cato cannot say a word of guidance either way.

After what feels like hours, he feels a movement from beside him, and he freezes, feigning the depths of sleep. In the darkness he has adjusted to, he can just about make out Clove's form. She moves across the room with a velvet tread, and closes the bathroom door behind her. As grimly as she has gone, it leaves Cato in the onslaught of thought. They should speak. They should, but they won't, because he had been proven wrong, which he hates, and because they both know there are no words to properly say goodbye with.

He remains on his back for so long. Clove must have been gone ten minutes by the time he hears water running, and then he remains for another forty minutes, thinking nothing, being noting. Chaos is mumbling to him, gotta do more, gotta be more, but at a time like this, what's there to be? Peeta is the one with the answers, even if he sneaks up on you, he's a smart kid. He's too smart and now he's gotten Cato into this mess by lying, or at least, announcing to everybody what Cato perceives to be a lie (because after all that Cato has done to him, how could the boy feel anything but contempt or loathing? How could he have the audacity to love?).

The thought pushes Cato onto his feet and feeling around in the darkness. What he needs more than anything is a distraction. To not be alone with his words and thoughts. It might be simple to have Clove kiss him, to put his arms around her and to no longer feel alone, but it seems daunting. It didn't take long for Cato to turn deadly; it didn't take much at all. But it will take a miracle for him to ever be romantic.

That motivates him to knock, once-twice, on the bathroom door, and then without waiting, he slips into the garishly bright light. The steam hits him like a fever and consumes his skin. It goes flush under the heat, and through narrowed yes, he searches for her. The sound of water hammering on tile is louder than torrential rain and it makes hard to hear her breathing that was so accentuated in the darkness. Soon enough he adjusts to the light, and the steam laughing in his face, and he slides the frosted glass panel, and peers into the shower, large as it is.

In the corner, whiter than the tile and damper than the water itself, Clove looks so small, and so young and so lost, pressed into the far wall, under the stream of water. She's sat, with her knees drawn up to her chest. The nightgown she hasn't bothered to take off sticks to her. None of that matters, and it isn't what strikes Cato, he's seen her in far more compromising situations. It's that she's crying, and Clove very rarely cries. Least of all for Cato.

He staggers backwards a little, wondering if it's some kind of intrusion, and then takes a step forward.

"You get the day with me, tomorrow. You gonna teach me how to throw a knife?" Clove doesn't look at him. She wipes at her eyes furiously, not allowing him to get the bit closest to her. Cato isn't beaten that easily. He slips down next to her. "I pick it up if you tell me enough times,"

"Shut up," She says, but she's smiling, and that means he's won, sort of. "Stick with a sword." She tells him. "I'm only here to send you things,"

Cato smiles. He lifts an arm and drapes it over her shoulders. "The first thing I get better not be bread or something," It makes her laugh at least. "And if it is, make it the nice stuff."

"I will," She says, very serious, and then breaks down crying again. He doesn't have any idea how to deal with her like this. This isn't how they work, she swears at him and tells him lies with sweet words alongside, but she never cries, she never bears her soul like this because even now, Cato has no idea what to do with it. He gingerly gives her a small squeeze.

"Don't cry," He says, in a voice that's more unfeeling than he intended. She tries to keep herself composed.

"I'm sorry." She struggles to get out, and then smooths out her voice. "You should probably go and talk to Peeta, anyway." That's an odd thing to hear, certainly. Surely, she would be angry that Peeta has bypassed her entirely and has confessed a desire for Cato. No, clove is unnervingly calm about the whole thing.

"And say what?" Cato says, sharply.

"I don't know," She sighs. "But don't go for him, in the arena." Clove swallows. "Let him live,"

Cato leans his head back against the tile and tries not to think of Peeta, kind and smart and important Peeta with all of the words in the world and a love that dares not speak it's name, if you catch my drift. How invincible he is, even though he couldn't tip seventy-five kilos soaking wet. It's not as if Cato wants to kill him, or anybody. But he wants to be around, for all of the plans he has in his head.

"I'm not going to kill him," He says, honestly. "But somebody will have to,"

"I know that!" Clove turns on him, but then her strength dies down again into sorrow. "I know that. But I just keep wishing there was some other way,"

Cato says there's not. He wishes he was wrong.

And elsewhere is Peeta. His windpipe feels sore and for the life of him, he can't stop shaking. Each time he thinks he's calmed a little, he can see Cato in his mind again, clear as day and hot with rage. He looked as if he was set to kill, and it's not like Cato couldn't. Peeta has seen it before, they all have, how easy it would be for the man to put two hands either side of his face and _snap!_ And It'd all be over.

Worse of all is how Peeta has been hallucinating Cato at the backs of other men and they turn around, smiling. But there's no recognition in their eyes. He sometimes sees Cato in daydreams, passing here or there, and in those same reveries they have spoken and laughed, and he has been something different from either victor or tribute, Peeta has kissed those lips a thousand times. Even now, he wonders, is Cato feeling lonely, or is there somebody else loving him?

He wants Clove to be happy. He loves her, but in a different way, and while he wants her to be happy, he wants them both happy, Peeta can't ignore this strange feeling on his chest, not quite envy and not quite pity when he sees the two of them kiss, or laugh, or share something. Because what he wants, really, is to be the one laughing, sharing, and kissing but for once not in his mind 's eye. Instead in reality.

He thinks about rising from a bed that feels like a cooling board and unravelling the covers that feel like a cooling sheet and going down to the second floor, where Cato will be awake, or sleeping, but sill beautiful and present and it would be enough to look at him, Christ's sake, that in itself would be glorious. Peeta gets the feeling neither of them will have much to say. 's done too much taking as it is, in front of too many people with too much detail. They have gone md for this lovestory, most of them believing, a few sceptical. What doers {Peeta care? They don't validate his feelings.

Unable to stand the sight of his ceiling any longer, Peeta swings his legs over the edge of the bed and forces himself out into the sitting room. It takes a very long time for him to move, and then he's there, at his bedroom door, opening it with a creak and easing out onto the thicker carpet. He feels a little better for this dull light, and pads further into the room.

"Hey there, Romeo," Irving's voice scared the bejsesus out of him and Peeta lets out a frightened squeak, stumbling back a bit before spying her on one of the dining chairs, eating a mandarin. The girl looks so harmless. Peeta doesn't want to hurt her. He won't. he isn't going to hurt anybody, and he'll do just what Gale said, he'll try to win without having them change him. Without having them own him. "You going for a midnight stroll?"

He shrugs, bashfully, and joins her at the table. "I can't sleep,"

Irving raises her eyebrows at him, and takes another bite. She talks with her mouth full. In his house, any Mellark would blush to act in such a way around his mother. "Well, neither can the rest of you," She offers him some food. Hers is a friendly hand. "Looks like you set the Capitol on fire with that declaration of yours,"

He feels his face go hot, and Peeta feels the need to justify himself, he feels the need to defend what he sass id, but above all Cato. He knows what they say, how they say it and mean it, and for a while, Peeta believed them. It's not so simple or horribly complex as they would have others believe. But he says nothing, to stay objective. Irving doesn't seem to mind. She flashes him another smile.

"Did you know you were gon' say that, when you went on?" Peeta shakes his head. She considers it.

"I didn't say that I loved him to get Sponsors," Peeta says, sharply, all breathless with indignation, like it's the most important thing ever. He hates that it's a game, because even though it is, it's also a war, and the casualties are as real and as grave as it gets. As Peeta knows from watching, though, it's easy to forget. You cry when you favourites die. You smile when they win. But you never remember that they're people, they have families and lives and people who remember them.

"Nobody's saying that," Irving says, shortly, outing the fruit down. She stares over at the centrepiece of the table, a vase of hideous, engineered Capitol flowers, false colours and improved blooms. Peeta likes the yellow ones that Clove buys, sometimes, the ones the colour of Cato's hair that sit in the living room and smell as if they have been dipped in honey and death all at once.

"Thank you," Peeta says quietly.

"For what?" She blinks at him, slowly.

"For not asking if I do or not," he sighs. "Love him, I mean,"

The girl shrugs. She has a heavier accent than Peeta, more rural. Probably because even if she's from the merchant's area of 12, she spends a lot of time at the hob, flirting her way around Peacekeepers and picking up all kinds of old world curses. "Not my business, Loverboy," Peeta keeps tight-lipped about the nickname. "I'm in the business of stayin' alive. So far, so good,"

Irving scored at eight in training. Most tributes from 12 get sixes. She cannot be ignored.

Harmlessly, which cannot be true to her skill, Irving shrugs. "I'll leave you to ruminate on your strategy, Mellark," And she rises, pretty tall for her age, leaving Peeta in the dim of the sitting room. He isn't hungry, and he doesn't have the capacity to think without getting drawn back to his own dreams, to all of those times Cato has laughed for him and looked at him in the way he looks at Clove, with loving but hungry eyes. God, he could devour Peeta, literally, metaphysically. But, instead, he stays put.

He tries to forget that he'll be getting ready for the arena in a day. That he'll be on his platform, in the Games, holding his token, staring at the cornucopia, open like a maw of death, ready to consume easy, gallant prey.

It's too warm here. Peeta misses the snowfall in the winter of 12. It rarely snows elsewhere. He misses the lake freezing over, where the children tie bones to their shoes and skate over it's surface. Peeta joins them. And so did Katniss, once or twice, dragged out by her sister. Where they do not skate any more.

Katniss had seam-grey eyes. And while they were beautiful, a different shade of blue sees Peeta through his dreams.

The last day on earth begins tardily. Peeta rouses very slowly, already late for his last chance to train. What little he manages to get down him is tasteless and feels as if it provides no sustenance. He slept, but {Peeta feels no benefit from it, apart from stiffness in his joints and messed hair. Irving has already gone down to train, smart girl, but Peeta is in no rush to be sped up the line to death. He finishes breakfast slowly and then manages to change into the uniform. Cinna rides down to the training gym with him.

In the stifling silence of the elevator, the stylist speaks. "What you did was brave, Peeta. Don't let people tell you otherwise,"

The boy swallows, his throat feeling like sandpaper, his chest feeling tight and God, his heart, it aches with strange enduring pains, and at a time like this he wouldn't mind reaching between his ribs, tearing it out and stomping on it, for good measure. Choose love or sympathy, but never both, and what good does this love do him anyway? He hurts like he never has before, and just one glance at Cato will diminish him to dust.

"I don't feel brave," Peeta tries to laugh but can't. Cinna sighs.

"The piano isn't firewood yet,"

"What?" Peeta feels himself freeze up as the doors open.

Cinna places a hand on his shoulder. "It's an expression. Everybody knows you're going to live, Peeta. You might as well start trying,"

The piano is not Firewood yet. Morgue to love. Peeta takes a step out into the room, and gives one more look at Cinna before he's alone. And with the crackling of firewood in the back of his mind, he crosses the room, and finds solace in making fires from nothing, least of all the piano. Peeta remains in the Training canter for eight hours, and with the passing of each minute, he looks up to find Cato, bu never quite sees him. All fo the other tributes are there, with their mentors, hard and private and solitary as oysters. No Clove. No Cato. He makes no appearance.

And when Peeta has to return to sleep, he wonders where the man can possibly be.

Cato spends his last night on earth in the place he wants to be most. For at least twelve hours, he stays in his sheets with Clove, something different from either lust or love. They stare at the ceiling and tell stories and memories. She calls him a liar and a hero all at once, a charlatan and a saint and Cato will miss her most casual abuse, he tries to remember everything about her even if the piano isn't firewood yet.

Her heart beats in three, and nothing can stop them from dancing. It tells him he's not dying.

In the moments she isn't laughing, or smiling with Cato, Clove buries her face into his neck and tries to put into words how she loves him, even if it feels impossible and probably is. He runs a hand down her shoulder, and places another on the swell of her stomach and says it back with silence.

Everyone knows it's going to hurt. At least it's for something. Cato can't promise he'll make it home safely, but he tries, with broad, easy touches, and then as the night rolls in, with his body, in the way he knows best. It's one of those times Clove doesn't play games, she looks him in the eyes as she cries out, of more and for mercy, Cato kisses like he means it and then they both go, higher and further than any mockingjay in the Capitol's sky, than any of them would dare to dream.

And when the sky is darker than either of them can recall, and they feel sleepy, he sets her down gently, tries to make himself a sail to float to her in the whistling wind. Clove knows she can't cry, so she keeps very still and very quiet.

They both know it's his last night on earth.

"I'll be here," She tells him. Cato blinks at her.

"Why?"

She takes a breath. "I'll be _waiting_, here."

"For what?" Cato knows what for. He just wants to hear it, he wants to know that she wants him, just as he wants to think of her entirely, and not partially of a different kind of blue, like Galbanna Lillies, but somehow softer, with words that can charm the world.

Clove swallows. "I'll be here, waiting." Her throat feels so tight. "For you." She knows she cannot cry. That would be betrayal. "So…if you come here-…you'll find me,"

Cato keeps quiet for a very long time. He seems to think about everything, and it's too much to put on a single man, even if he is endless. The best piece of advice comes back to him. Cato has to remain strong, and calm. He holds hi Devil by his spoke, and spins it to the ground, before speaking.

"Okay," He says, like a promise.

And that's what Clove says to him, in the launch room.

She holds onto his hands a little too lightly and looks ready to weep. The room is as both of them remember, sterile enough to make bleach blush, bloodless and removed from it all. She cannot bear to see him like this, ready to be led to the slaughter and away from her. The acids in her stomach feel as if they have burnt right through and the kicks are only making her more nervous. She keeps her breathing level.

He looks so vacant and beautiful, so young, too young and she can do nothing but watch him slip through her fingers. Clove holds tightly onto the fabric of his shirt and breathes him in.

"I'll be here," She manages, tears falling silently of their own accord. He nods.

"Okay,"

"Do you have your token?" Clove is shaking at this stage. Cato doesn't dare even move. He nods, and very slowly, h pulls a four-way-folded piece of film paper from his pocket. In the light, Clove can see through to the black-and-white etchings that still make her nervous. Do it for her. "That's good," Her voice is all croaky. She wonders if this is the hero's errand, because she doesn't feel heroic anymore.

"You be waiting for me, okay?" Cato gets out. His voice almost never sounds like I does now.

"Okay," Clove sobs. She looks away for a second, drying her eyes on her sleeve, before looking back at him. "And stay alive, for both of us. I couldn't-…" It breaks off into crying again.

"We're not done seeing eachother," He says, and Clove wonders it any of it means something to him, but then she sees his shoulder start to sag. Cato is crying.

"You'll get a parachute real soon. I promise." She weeps, and Cato has already turned away from her. His voice is thick, and he sounds so young, like all those years ago when he talks.

"I'll wait up for one," He tells her, still not facing her.

_'Thirty seconds'_

"Oh, God," Clove starts to panic. She grabs onto him. "Don't leave me, I can't do this on my own,"

Cato swallows. There are tears running down his paper-white face and his eyes look like the ocean. He smiles at her, and lets out a tiny laugh, pulling her into his arms.

"It's going to be fine," He promises her. "I'm going to get home and we'll move away and-"

'_Twenty seconds'__  
__  
_They kiss. It's the last they know for certain to share and Clove tries to memorise every detail, and how Cato is gentle for once and lingering ad sweet, and how even though he's tired and lost, and how he faces death, he still tastes like something life-giving, as if he's been dipped in honey but also like the damp of graves. She cannot bear to have him go. She could not live to have him leave her.

Clove lets out another sob. "It's going to be okay," He soothes her.

_'Ten seconds'_

"No!" She screams out, clamping down onto his jacket. Cato peels her off, and steps backwards into the launch tube. It closes before Clove can find her way back to him. She screams and pounds on the glass.

"Clove, I have to go," He tells her, even though she cannot hear him. He presses a hand against the glass. Clove is feral.

_"No!"_ She screams. "You said we'd be together! You said we'd grow old together, you promised!" Her nails scratch at the glass and there's nothing to be done, nothing at all.

The plate beneath Cato rises. It makes Clove scream louder. He crouches, in the haste of things, and sets his hand against the glass.

"How about a kiss, _Clover_?" He says, even though he's crying. "How about a-"

She disappears into darkness, and he's hit with a very cold breeze. Cato can see nothing, and he hears little but the wind whistling. There's nothing here! Nothing but darkness! Cato panics, turning to his left and right and making out very vague shadows, but nothing clear. He looks up, to the sky, where the sun should be, but finds only a slither of pale ribbon giving out light. It pours down on the cornucopia in front and to his left, spilling with packs and weapons and the glistening of swords.

It's an eclipse.

They're at thirty seconds, and then Cato realises that the ground is suspiciously shiny and looks almost like some kind f crystal. He takes a long glance to his right and realises that it's not grass or terrain at all, but ice. They're on a frozen lake. Now wonder, as he can see his own breath shaking in the eclipse air. There's no telling what time of day it is.

Somebody has set their eyes on him. Far to the left, he can make out a shock of lamplit lemon hair, which he knows is Peeta, and behind him is an eerie blue thicket that widens into a jungle. A whitewood, perhaps?

There's no time to think. They're at seven seconds and Cato can feel the tears on his face have turned to ice.

He doesn't even get a look to see who is at his right or left before the immortal voice of Claudius Templesmith rings out.

_'Ladies and Gentlemen, let the 75__th__ annual Hunger Games begin!'_


	28. Act 7, Scene 1

Some eternities are smaller than others.

How can sixty seconds feel so long? Peeta is in darkness at fifty-eight seconds, unable to make out anything but vague blocks and shapes. The merciless wind from his left burns down the side of his face and sets his teeth to chatter. Like the twitching agonies of fallen tributes, mad gusts tug on his sleeves and trousers. Pale flakes of fingering stealth come feeling for his face, shuddering the air white with snow and somehow less deadly than either the ice or the rain. Sleet.

He looks up. Forty-six seconds, and yet moments go by like chutes too narrow, as if there's time to be lazy. None of Peeta's memories have bloomed from moments to flowers in his eyes. To hell with winning or losing, to hell with their favourites and the odds and the numbers. Peeta looks around at the place he will die, becoming more and more detailed as his eyes adjust to this indigo darkness, and he thinks 'isn't it wonderful? What a beautiful place to die'.

He can feel the occasional flitter of eyes on him, as each tribute tries to immerse their selves in the arena. It's an odd one, certainly, and there's no telling what the jungle will bring. At the mouth of the cornucopia, all littered with treasures, are weapons and bags of apples and, further back, medicine. Peeta isn't much of a survivalist, and the apples look so crisp and inviting. He knows how to cross ice. Back in 12, the lake freezes over and children tie bones to their shoes to make skates. If how can only get to something dull and fairly flat, like a knife, it will be easy.

Cinna had said, explicitly, to run. To head away as soon as the gong sounds and find shelter, food, and water. But what if there's no water in the arena? Or food? Peeta certainly wouldn't put it past the Gamemakers, as it's been done before. Packs are a guarantee of something, and he does have the advantage. It rarely snows elsewhere. Occasionally in six, and three, but nowhere else. None of the other tributes will know how to skate.

He realises he's been staring at Cato. Twenty-one seconds and it doesn't even matter, not when Peeta can feel those peaceful, shy blue eyes on him. Cato's face is whiter than the ice and his eyes are bluer than if Mercy tore her own out and handed them to the boy. There's something else, too, the way his eyes shine, and then Peeta realises it. He has been crying. He might never see Clove again.

It's not his place to look. So Peeta looks away.

Ten seconds. How tempting the cornucopia looks. Peeta doesn't want to kill anybody. In and out, swift and harmless. But he knows that, really, they'll give him chase. They will hunt him down, and Peeta needs a weapon for insurance more than anything. Swords stare at him, he sees them in Cato's hands and wishes that he could feel those peaceful eyes on him one more time. Did Cato ever know, that Peeta was looking, too? Does Cato know that in Peeta's head, it's just like this? Dream or none, eyes on him, and Peeta doesn't care if it's real.

The knives are in the far back. Dark and sharp and precise, to the letter. Clove in all ways but one-…there is no secret tenderness in that weapon. Christ, even Cato knows the she stops, sometimes, that she exercises restraint. Peeta is fine with a knife. He's better with words, with the pen. But, here, there's no room for talking.

The ice shimmers. The blue looks beautiful and deadly. Time is running out. The last ten seconds and now all Peeta can do is panic. Where has the time gone? Around the cornucopia, the others are lined up. Some are baffled by the ice. The man from six is gearing up to head for a mace, and he' pretty handy with one, too. Right along the edge, he spies Beetee, looking very ready to turn towards the jungle and run.

So much for camaraderie. But Peeta knows, better than most that nobody ends up a victor by chance. Beetee, just like the rest of them, hears screaming in his nightmares. All of the victors wake up in a cold sweat, under the blankets, shaking and drowning. Only Cato has somebody to lean over and assure him, that it's just a trick, it's nothing, it's fine.

Peeta leans forward on his feet. How far is it? How quickly can he go the distance, and then head towards the jungle? Cashmere is about six platforms along. She doesn't have the advantage of familiarity, but the Careers have one thing Peeta doesn't: remorselessness. To them, it really is a Game.

_'Five'_ Should he go? Should Peeta head for the bag of apples, the food that looks so easy and appetising? That doesn't seem to come with a cost? The other tributes seem pretty hungry, too, and not for food.  
_  
'Three'_ Peeta squeaks. The jungle looks so safe. He wonders where Cato will go. To the swords, or to solace? Not that it matters. Not that Peeta can afford to love, here. He won't survive an hour.

'_Two' _He leans back on his heels and readies himself.

'_One'_ Peeta swallows as much air as he can manage. He doesn't breathe when the announcement comes in.

_'Ladies and Gentlemen, let the 75__th__ annual Hunger games begin!'_

All at sea. Peeta steps out onto the ice, expecting to find his balance shaky, but instead it's steady. The shoes. It's the shoes! He realises quickly why they have been so fastidiously secured around his ankles. The telltale grind of metal on ice as he goes tells him that they have something on the sole, blade or bone, whatever it is, for skating, but not large enough to notice when walking. Un like the others, Peeta doesn't wait around to study them. He makes a path for the cornucopia.

Cries and mutters from behind him flicker like a rumbling gunnery, the rumour of another dull Games. Peeta stops for nobody, terrified, his legs locked in position as he moved manically across the ice and towards the mouth of the cornucopia. To his far right, somebody gets there first and Peeta stops, watching the male from six.

He is completely frozen. The other 23 don't seem to matter. The male from six grabs a spear and scoops up a pack, giddy from fear and something else. Peeta only watches, strangely fascinated, only a few feet from the side of the cornucopia. All if safe, and Peeta doesn't think to move. They are the only two in the cornucopia.

The male from six is the first to fall.

A sharp, piercing wind whistles and the tribute falls face-first onto the ice, painting it rouge with blood. Peeta doesn't react until he sees Irving coming from the far left of the cornucopia, brandishing a recurve crossbow that she has only just picked up. The girl leans down, scoops up a sheath of arrows, and then skates over to the body.

The male twitches, so she shoots him again. The canon fires.

Irving looks even younger in the pale of the eclipse. There's some blood spatter on her arms, because she shot at such close range. Instead of leaving the body, she pulls out both arrows that she had fired, and places them back into the sheath on her back. Peeta skates in a wide arc, certain she'll kill him. They both stare at eachother for a very long time.

She's no Katniss Everdeen, that's for sure. Peeta, initially, had been somewhat assure by Irving, and how much she reminded him of 12. But tributes from 12 rarely manage a kill, and here she is, with the first of the Game. He had doubted her capacity to shoot for a second, but he doubts no more. Peeta is terrified, and he cries out in shock when she aims the crossbow toward him.

"Peeta?" She asks. He nods, helplessly.

"Don't shoot!"

Irving drops the recurve crossbow back down to her side. The tributes are setting in from either side, now so Peeta skates further into the mouth of the cornucopia and scoops up a pack, and a bag of food. The girl lets him be, getting herself a pack, before tearing another crossbow from the ice. It's smaller, and less fatal, but still a weapon nonetheless.

"Hey, Romeo!" She calls over to him. Peeta turns, still untrusting, and she shoots.

For a second, Peeta waits, so certain he'll feel the woodcutter's swing and then the pain, white-hot and unstoppable, that will come pouring down his chest. Then death comes, slowly, pulling him under the iron waters of Styx. But no pain comes. Peeta cracks open an eye and turns, seeing the form of the female from seven fall onto the ice, an arrow buries deep into her collar. She's only a few inches from behind Peeta when she falls, and it petrifies him.

Irving nods, and moves over to him. She hands him the smaller weapon. "Paramina crossbow," She tells him, and then skates further out to the jungle. Peeta follows her, slowed as another body falls into his path, crying out in fear, turning and aiming uselessly. The weapon is loaded with a single arrow, with Irving taking the rest. He had better make it count, because the Careers are in the cornucopia now. Gloss is the last in, casting Peeta a glance, and an assured smile.

"Move it, Loverboy." What tears him away I the hand gripping his wrist. With her free had, Irving pulls him along as they skate away from the cornucopia ad towards the embankment, that leads to the thicket and then deepens into the jungle. The sleet is making it even harder to see, and Peeta burns from the cold. "You can look for your sweetheart later," They clear a fair amount of distance, and Peeta throws a quick few glances over his shoulder.

There's no Beetee, or Wiress. They had the good sense to clear out. The canon fires once, twice, again and again, with Peeta losing count. He can't see Cato, which comforts him, but little is visible in this eclipse. What if he's already dead?

Peeta couldn't bear to see his face in the sky, pale and lovely, remembered. Past tense.

"You want to die?" Irving cries out, exasperated, as she scrambles onto the bank. Peeta follows her, heaving up the paramina crossbow, and then himself.

"No," He wheezes, "I mean, I'm sorry-"

"Then move it!" She orders him, and then run across, through the thicket slowed by the vines and creeping plants. The jungle is even darker and Peeta feels his way through it, hearing the trees crack with every boom of the canon and knowing that another has fallen. His heart screams for Cato every time, but he keeps quiet, listening out for other tributes and following Irving down this rabbithole of a jungle. The trees are a strange, blue colour and the barks twist, sometimes horizontal, like bridges, across the dark soil, all flecked with snow that fails to sufficiently settle.

They run for what feels like an eternity with each corner an uphill battle, even further from Cato, and from the Career pack. Even further from danger and help. There are skeletons of vehicles at turnings, too, the body of a train that looks ancient, rusted and ruined. It hangs over a ravine, looking precarious. The other car attached is hanging completely over the edge. The whole arena looks like the ruins of six, District of transportation, with the snow, but different with all of the jungle, and the eclipse. Nowhere in Panem is this dark.

And even with the limited amount of light, Peeta can sense it has changed by the time he stops, nearly keel over, holding a hand up to Irving. He can tell from his embedded time, that it's late into the evening. Exactly twelve minutes past eight.

"Please," He wheezes, hands-on-knees, gasping out for breath. "I need to rest," Irving looks around, first with her crossbow, and then she retires it to her side and nods. Restlessness plagues her, and Peeta knows she's scared that if they stop now they won't start again. "Nobody's around,"

She licks her lips and sighs. "You can't be too careful," Carefully, she walks over to the shell of another old train, this one overturned above a ditch. Underneath, there's a dip of ground nearly invisible but to those who know the value of secrets and shelter. It's dry, too, from where the sleet and snow has been unable to penetrate. The train car above is rusted and sorry-looking, but it will hold fine. In a second, Irving slips under it with her recurve crossbow and pack.

Peeta follows. "Thankyou," he says, tiredly. "For the help,"

Irving sets the weapon on her lap and strokes the tiller. "All part and parcel of the deal," She assures him. The silences arises and Peeta can't think of how to phrase the deal.

"Remind me again," He asks, carefully. "What were the conditions of the deal?"

She sighs. "Cinna forget to tell you?" Helpful but mute, Peeta nods. "Deal was, I get you out of the bloodbath safely, and we'd be allies," her hand pauses n the stirrup of the recurve crossbow, and even though it isn't loaded, Peeta remains on guard, holding his own, the smaller paramina, close to his chest.

"You wanted me as an ally?" He gets out, nervously.

Irving shrugs. "Far as I can tell, you're not going to slit my throat in the night," Peeta shakes his head. "We both know it, Romeo your best chance at winning is finding District 2 before the others do," She gets out a smile. "Figure you aren't doing that too soon,"

"You saved my life," Peeta says. She begins to look very uncomfortable.

"I got lucky with a shot,"

"And you help-"

"Listen, sweetheart," She says, rolling her eyes. "You can do me favour for having my back, okay? Just-" She gestures, as if to somehow swat the conversation away. And it's not modesty, either. "Just owe me and say nothin' more, okay?"

That's fine by Peeta.

They spend the next hour in silence, eating sparsely, some of the apples from what Peeta had snagged and the dried fruit that comes in the pack. Of course, they have no water provided, but they manage to improvise with melting snow. Here is no fire, and Peeta gets the first shift sleeping, huddled in on himself, thinking and wondering where Cato is, if he still is. Another thought is cast back to home, and to Clove. She must be pained to watch, unable to do much at all and all alone, completely and totally alone with these occasional kicks from a daughter that reminds her of her fate.

What wakes Peeta at exactly midnight his embedded time is working fine) is the Capitol anthem. The eclipse remains dark, and stark against it, he can read the face of the fallen. None of the Careers have gone. Or Beetee, or Wiress, which is a relief. Both from five have gone. The male from six, the girl from seven, who had been after Peeta. Girls from eight and nine, who were just regular tributes, and both from ten, who were quite old anyway.

But no Cato.

"Relax, Loverboy," Irving says, as the music dies down. Her voice is hushed, as if afraid that the faces of the dead will reappear to eavesdrop. "He's plenty smart enough not to die. He on this thing once, y'know,"

"He's plenty arrogant," Peeta murmurs, which gets him a glance. "If I know Cato, then he's going to have to rely on strength. Without a sword, he's got no other asset in this arena." Peeta stares out at the sleet and sighs. "It's not that he's dumb. He just never thought to learn the survival techniques,"

The silence falls again for a few minutes. Irving seems to sense that Peeta has become lost in thought over Cato, all eyes on the boy. The Capitol viewers must be cooing and all of that, which is sad, really. Is Cato talking of Peeta? No, he's probably alone, and must seem colder in comparison. What does Cato care if some boy has an eye for him? He's got a wife and daughter, essentially, and they're likely his priority.

Irving pulls a bloodied arrow out of her sheath and examines it. Brave, she glances up. "Why Cato?" She asks, out of genuine curiosity. "What is it you see in him?"

Peeta has the strange smile on his face. He sighs. "Y'know when you look at somebody, and they just seem fine?" Irving nods, unsure where this is going. "And then you get to know them, and suddenly they just become-" He trails off, "…beautiful?"

She laughs. "Jesus, you're like a schoolgirl. It may be sweet, but it's not dignified,"

shakes his head, but allows himself a small laugh. "Yeah, you're a comedian," He clears his throat. "It's easy to write him off is what I mean. He's cocky, and kind of ignorant."

"Sounds like a real Prince Charming,"

"Hey," Peeta says, sharply. "You can say a lot against him, sure. But there are other things you wouldn't think," The boy leans his head against the dirt. "He's a good man,"

"Whatever," Irving shrugs. "Get some sleep," Peeta nods, and rolls onto his side. It's cold, but when he pulls the sleeping bag further up, it gets comfortable and his heat is reflected back onto him. As the night goes on the sleet turns to snow and it gets heavier. There's nobody around for what seems like an eternity. Or at least, nobody within earshot, but death is a dynamism, not a man on a horse or anything quite so literal. At exactly ten minutes past five in the morning, as the eclipse is still in strength, keeping everything dark, Peeta ha trouble waking up. He swaps his paramina for the recurve and sits watch as Irving sleeps.

At one point she wakes with a great start, as if thrown into battle. "It's okay," Peeta tells her, because he has seen this before. "It's just a trick, go back to sleep," And she does, all quiet and peaceful, as if death had never come. The blood of the male from six is still on her arms in small sprayed particles, and coating the tip of two arrows. Peeta studies the red and keeps himself busy with thinking, just thinking, until it tips midday, and Irving rouses herself.

They go like this for the best part of twenty hours or so. It keeps them busy, and safe, but they both know it won't be long before the Gamemakers force them to move.

Peeta sleeps on and off. He has two sips of water in a row, and four dreams, in a row, of Katniss appearing at his side in the night and singing the Valley Song to him, until he gets sleepy and they nestle into eachother. She smiles that rare smile and is warm, inviting, and tender. All the things Peeta never got to see. And then he dreams of Cato, and the mutts, and the screaming. He can hear Clove in hysterics, but nobody can find the light of the setting sun under the iron sky.

When Peeta wakes, he slips out from under the skeletal train carriage and into the freezing air. It's a snowdrift, and it's only gotten worse. In the darkness the jungle floor looks deeper than the ocean and Peeta struggles to find some more clean snow to melt for water. His hands are shaking so badly that he can barely focus the paramina crossbow when a hare steps out into the clearing. It takes three arrows to hit, and Peeta retrieve them all, diligently.

He beings the game back to Irving, who sets about skinning it, and she makes a fire.

They eat in a grateful silence and huddle besides one another. Irving says nothing and looks around, untrusting. Her sleep must be interrupted, as dark circles are emerging under her eyes, and she looks as much like a canary as she dos a can of coup. So much for Cinna's elaborate costumes.

Over the orange of the fire, Peeta finds himself surprised to see a flash of colour. From the narrow gasp between the earth and the rain carriage above them, a butterfly has squeezed through and flits contentedly over the flames. Awed, Peeta lifts a wrist to catch it.

"Whoa there, sailor." Irving bats his hand away quickly with a long, clean arrow. She picks up her boots, which she had taken off to sleep, and crushes the thing, in a quick movement, between the soles. Opening her trap up, Peeta can see the crest of the Capitol on it's wings. "The blue ones bite,"

"It's just a butterfly," He says, simply.

"Think of it like a tracker jacker." She explains. "That venom is going to put you out for a long time. And it'll hurt too," She scrapes the sole of her shoes and puts them to the side again. Peeta stares miserably at the fire. "The red ones are fine. Just don't play with the red ones,"

He nods. "There was nothing about it at the survival stations."

Irving grins. "Then more fool the stupid bastard that gets bitten, eh?" And Peeta laughs, he agrees completely. "Still glad we're allies?" Peeta nods.

"Better the devil you know," He says, thinking of his Devil's Spoke, and all that entails. "It certainly beats going it alone. Buitterfly would have got me," At the time, Peeta is glad that nature didn't get him.

No, nature gets somebody else instead.


	29. Act 7, Scene 2

When Cato wakes , the first thing he sees is mountains.

In the darkness, two pile, snow-covered peaks twist skywards, looking jagged and dangerous and distant. From the precipice of either, it's quite a drop. The sleet hasn't ceased, and in the near-blackness of the eclipse he can just see stark pinpricks of white that come fingering for his face, shuddering the night icy with snow. Something pains him, and in the staggered onslaught of thought he manages to blink, and tries to lean forward, but pain freezes his body.

In the cold, he can feel something horribly lukewarm against his side, and his hands are crisp ad sticky, as if coated with something. Long, black vines are on his skin, from a small pinprick on the tip of his finger. Blood poisoning? Cato lifts a hand to get a better look at the injury, and then realises that half of his arm is coated in blood. He lifts the other hand, which is crimson to the point of being dipped in blood, too. It's dried to some degree, and a little bit more crystallised. Nervously, he looks down at his side where his arms were curled.

"Jesus Christ-" He gets out, in suddenly laboured breaths, leaning back against the seat he's sat in. He couldn't say how, but Cato has ended up sitting in one of the skeletal train carriages, resting upright on the seat, bleeding out his life. A gash runs down the side of his ribs and ends, going in deep, in his side. "That's my blood." He says, confused. "Oh, Christ, that's _a lot of my blood_…"

In a moment of panic, he goes to get up, one hand nursing the worst part of the injury. There's a small, silver parachute on the seat beside him, and he figures to go for it. The only strange thing is that it rests on the back of the chair, and not the seat. Lightheaded from shock, and loss of blood, he rights himself and moves forward.

The rickety train seat gives a creak. And then it snaps from his hinges.

It falls, alarmingly, backwards, and keeps on falling. Cato crashes to the train floor and realises in a moment why he feels so disorientated. _The train isn't horizontal. It's vertical. It's hanging over the cliff's edge.  
_  
And now he's sliding down the train floor, scrambling and grasping for precious life, aware that eventually the carpet will run out and he will plummet into the freezing eclipse air and down a sheer fall, onto the sharpened rocks below. Or, essentially, he will die. Panic sets in. Oh, Jesus. Oh, God, what the hell can he do? Cato cries out and claws at the side of the seats, two rows behind him.

For a second, he hangs there, the train floor ending no more than eight feet below him. The only other seats are to his left, and down too far to rick. The pain in his side is unbearable, and the streak of blood down the train floor only makes it worse. For the life of him, Cato cannot remember at all, he tries but gets nowhere. How much time has passed? How many-?

The seat creaks, and the side he holds onto collapses as the metal gets torn from the seat.

"No-" He gasps, cutting up the side of his palm. The blood is slick and he falls again, his head smacking against the seat two feet down and then he's sure he's dead, as he falls out of the carriage, battering against a railing at the back to the train before gripping, desperately, as his body swings over. It's still pitch black and sleeting and the night air is colder and damper than if he were crying. There is nothing but a chasm below, an abyss, or just death.

Cato feels as if he's hanging by his fingernails. One hand is secured around a bar, the lowest point on the hanging train.With a cry, he brings the other, wounded hand up and grasps the bar. Pain shoots up and down his body, but most of all, the feeling of his pulse, hammering away that reminds him he's alive, God, he's alive and if he can pull himself up and over the bar, and up the seats, he might be able to make it up the cliff.

For what feels like forever, though, Cato remains hanging. Not gripped by fear, but by a memory.

He ran. Yes, that's it. When the gong sounded, Cato had run from the Cornucopia and into the jungle, as far from the other tributes as he could get. For eternities, he seemed to go, looking for water, or food, or shelter. The arena appeared to be some kind of wasteland, like six, if there were jungle. Wrecks of trains and planes and cars were strewn throughout, and he had taken up the first night in the back of an overturned automobile.

During the anthem, where the first eight fallen were screened, a silver parachute landed in the driver's seat and inside had been a small, modest loaf of bread. No doubt costly as hell, but every dime worth it. Sill warm, and the smell had driven Cato to hysterics with gladness. Inside was a note. From Clove, with the wise words '_Don't eat it all at once'_.

There are gaps. He doesn't remember where or when he left that piece of shelter, but Cato must have, because his next memory is of waking up from a sleep in a high tree in the leafiest layer of the jungle. The eclipse was working in his favour, and none on the ground saw him. A good thing, too, because, even though his memory is patchy, there was a scream, and a dead girl, from eleven, a spear through her heart. Whoever from the Career pack had stuck her was long gone by the time the canon fired, which told Cato to move out. In the seconds before the hovercraft arrived, he pulled the spear from the girl's body, and headed far away, watchful at every turn.

Cato looks up at the train carriage and wonders how long the bar will hold before the drop to a gory and painful death. The groan of the metal is warning at best, and a promise of death at worst. It spurs him into action, and Cato looks up, seeing the old doorway to the outside platform of the platform open and empty. The train wall will hold better than the rail will, but it's a hell of a jump to get there.

With an evil hiss, He throws himself over the railing and scrambles up, in a frenzy, hearing the metal whine. His torso is thrown over the section of wall, and his feet are pushing hard on the railing below, when the metal whines again and it snaps off, leaving Cato half-safe, his feet still limp and hanging over nothingness.

He breathes a sigh of relief and scrambles over the wall, which is now his floor. Between two walls, one along the carriage side, now upright, and what's now his only solid ground, Cato gets his breath back, and gravely, takes another look at his wound. It's mostly superficial around the ribs, but is driven in scarily deep. Cato winces, because, Jesus Christ, it's bursts of agony and sheerness. It's three, maybe four inches deep and still bleeding out, after God knows how long. This thing shows no sign of clotting.

If Clove were here, he knows what she would say. What he loves her for is her honesty: while others would spoonfed him those old piteous platitudes of pain. Clove would never look him in the eyes and lie to him, tell him that everything was going to be okay, and that it was just a scratch. Cato wouldn't believe it anyway, but he knows, if she were here, she'd slap him hard and say, through gritted teeth 'don't you die on me, you stupid bastard'. That's good, because he doesn't intend to.

However (un)treatable the wound is, it can wait. When he's not hanging over the precipice to his death, with chair breaking and metal snapping and everything going horribly wrong, he can consider the situation. Now's not the time.

Back at the front of the carriage, the silver parachute lays, on the far seat, innocuous enough. Cato can see part of the fabric, and it gives him ambition enough to stand up. He bends his knees and lets out an inhuman noise as he jumps and manages to grip onto the back of a seat further up the carriage. But now he's in intense pain, hanging once more. His shoulders are nearly damn well dislocated, so he brings the other up quickly and scrambles over the top, so that for the moment, he's safe. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness, but the sleet continues to make things difficult.

The seat is going to break at any moment. Cato looks around for somewhere else to flee to, but the next row of seats is too far, and now the metal is creaking and his pulse is hammering against his ribs and he thinks he's going to be sick.

"Shit, shit, shit-" He kicks the glass of the window out that's exactly to his left, and not a minute too soon. The seat snaps backwards and he dives, gasping onto the widow's frame and having his faith rewarded. It's progress, at the very least. He's still alive, and now halfway back up the carriage.

From here, he manages to swing himself onto another set of seats, where the parachute is. Hastily, he tears part of the strings that attach the parachute to the gift and bind the thing around his neck, tightly. It's easy enough to move onto the next set of seats, a jump to the right, and climb over to the row in front of them. All the while, the white vile peaks stare at him thorough the train's open windows and remind him of death, climbing up the carriage to get him. It's a reasonable jump from the first row to the door, which he can push in and grab onto the frame.

He shimmies up the coupler and then into the snow, safe, Jesus Christ, safe on the cliff's edge.

With haste, he tears off the parachute from around his neck and fiddles with the clasp, managing to get it open. Inside are two things. The first is a large, white plaster, for the wound, and the second, he recognises only by smell, is a powerful Capitol medicine. On the tin of the medicine is a small paper note. It's from her. Cato can picture her voice when he reads the words _'hold your Devil by His Spoke and spin Him to the ground'_.

He lean back into the snow ad grabs a fistful of it, rubbing the stark white against his blood, to try and clean it. Even in the cold, he knows he will die of blood loss quicker than hypothermia, so Cato takes off his jacket and then shirt, to get a better look at the injury. He cleans it out and scoops a generous serving off medicine onto his fingers and liberally applies it. Then, we wraps it all up with the plaster, and staggers forwards, clothes in hand, off towards the jungle. Back in the snow, the note lays, useless, unwanted.

What good is his 'Devil's Spoke' now? After nearly bleeding out, after nearly dying? He wants something more from Clove, a picture, a sign, something substantial but instead he has-

Oh. _Oh_. Those aren't her words at all, are they? They're Peeta's. She isn't instructing him,. She's reminding him.

It was Peeta! The boy saved his life, or something equal to it. The first memory is a colour, blue. What's blue? Not the dark, purple sky, and not the same shade as Peeta's eyes, but colder, and with the Capitol's crest flitting about, partially visible. The butterfly! Cato had been looking for shelter when one came into view. It seemed so innocent and beautiful at the time, so he held up a hand. The insect landed on his index finger. And it…it bit him, yes, it bit him, and then he crushed it out of anger.

Then the memories become shiny. That's the only word for it. The jungle comes in distorted frame. Things appeared to expand and collapse, and then Cato swears he heard Clove's voice, him screaming for her, just as she had in the last Game, so he set off running, terrified. Tree barks chirped to him and a shiny black beetle hissed when it saw Cato. He was in agony, dark veins scratched down his arm from the bite, from the venom. He had felt like this before.

Cato remembers being sick, he remembers various stages of blacking out, tumbling down a ravine, and then shouts. He could do nothing but stand with his bloody spear, looking around, spinning wildly, terrified, screaming Clove's name as if she would be the star to his wandering bark. Somebody came crashing through the bush, four different versions of the girl from four, the Career, scars dancing up and down her face. She wielded an axe, a nasty thing, and swung for him.

yes, that's how he cut his side. Cato had turned, so she skimmed his ribs, but the tip got stuck in his side and it had hurt like hellfire. She pulled it out of him, and Cato was certain he'd die when a strange piercing noise rang through the trees and a long, thin arrow became wedged in her temple. Black blood spilled from the wound, and she shit the ground instantly.

Cato fell onto his knees and tried to pick himself up, hearing the roar of the canon and knowing that Careers never moved alone. Somebody else would come for him. The foliage rustled violent and he was certain her District partner was going to avenge her. For a second, he closed his eyes, and allowed death to get a little closer. And then he heard a familiar voice.

The boy with the blonde hair was glowing in his memory. Bright, soft lambency radiated from his skin, and he stood in such a way, frozen with shock, as if he were about to fly away. The canary. Peeta. Cato held up a hand to try to stop any advances, but the boy did not take the easy kill, and shoot him through the neck with his crossbow. The boy dropped it into the snow and knelt in front of Cato.

"Are you hurt?" He had asked, grasping Cato's face ad staring into his eyes. The memory is strange, because Peeta appeared somehow leaner, and whiter, like a column of smoke in combat gear. His eyes seemed too big for his face. Cato was too affected by the venom to answer, and just stared, vacantly ahead. "Cato, don't just sit there, answer me! Are you hurt?"

Then the boy noticed the axe-wound, and he fell backwards onto his hands. A pair of hands fell onto the boy's shoulders, and hoisted him up. The Careers.

Cato screamed out a moment late and he was dragged backwards, fighting forward to get to Peeta, the only one he could trust, the only one who's eyes were kind. The boy was screaming for him, fighting wildly against his own assailant, much taller, much older, and more rehearsed. Cashmere. It all felt like a dream. And she laughed at the boy for his struggling. "That's not going to help you, Loverboy,"

"Cato!" Peeta was red in the face. He was sure to die. "Cato!"

Cato fought and brawled but there were so may and he was slow. The visuals were a second to late and everything went blurry. There was a flurry of fists and then a tug on his hair but he could see nothing, only the sight of Peeta, held still to watch.

"Wake me up!" he had begged the boy, throwing the weight on his left shoulder forward. "Peeta, please, wake me up!" And then his voice had become shrill and panicked and unlike anything he had ever heard.

"Irving!" The boy screamed. "Irving, help!" But the nightmare continued, and then Peeta changed act. ~"It's just a trick, Cato, it's just a trick. They can't hurt you-"

"Then wake me up!" Cato wailed. "Don't let me die! Wake me up-"

He remembers the sound of an arrow, and one of the Careers holing him fell, face-first, into the snow. The others knew what was coming, and as soon as the canon sounded, they cleared out with haste, leaving Peeta with an unfriendly gash across his face, not enough to kill, but enough it disfigure. The snow shuddered ruby with blood, and Cato couldn't breathe.

The boy crawled over to him and assessed the damage in his side.

"You're going to be okay," He said, very seriously. "It's just a scratch. You're fine,"

Cato sat up very slowly, and grabbed the boy by the throat. "Why wouldn't you wake me up?" He hissed. "I was going to die, and you just stood there!" A girl, blonde, and little younger than Peeta, appears in the clearing with a larger crossbow, scouting for enemies. She lets them be, her image magnified too many times, making Cato feel sick and uneasy. He can hear his own blood moving through him.

"I'm sorry," The boy got out, feebly. Cato let Peeta go, and then studied the blood running down his cheeks.

"Whatever happens, in here," He spoke very slowly, having trouble with his diction, and words. Having trouble remembering to whom his heart belonged. This memory is the shiniest of them all. "I don't want to lose you as my friend,"

Peeta smiled his simian smile, too beautiful to be injured like that, to be coughing. "I will never be your friend." He said, so seriously, looking Cato dead in the eyes and at the time that' all Cato saw, the steel shade of blue and something different from either Surplus or boy, something desirable. "no matter what. Ever."

And Peeta was close enough, just-so, that Cato did, he really wanted to lean in and close the gap and taste the boy who smelt of Galbana Lilies and delight, wisdom and grain, flour so earthy and pure that it seemed to germinate on his skin. Cato had wanted him, in those moments.

"If we kiss," He had said, his voice breaking slightly, still looking at Peeta. "If we do that I'm going to feel like shit tomorrow,"

And Peeta laughed. He had the audacity to be beautiful when things around him were at their ugliest. "That's okay with me," he said. There was a shout from the girl and Peeta moved away, for a second, tugging on Cato's arm, and pulling him to standing.

They had little time.

There's no sign of him now. Cato looks around the train wreckage, and the snow, but there's no Peeta, or Irving. No Careers, either. For a second, something cold unfurls in his stomach and he wonders if Peeta has fallen down, from the carriage, off into the abyss, where Cato cannot and wouldn't wish to follow. He still feels faint, and unsteady on his feet, but manages to stagger to standing, clasping the tin of medicine in his fist.

He has to find Peeta.

Cato re-enters the jungle, but the trees are sparser and there are no signs of life or wreckage. He goes as far as he can before the jungle reduces itself to a thicket, and then, he can see stretching out before him, a wide, lifeless plain bereft of timber or anything at all. What strikes him as strange is that, even though it's still sleeting here, bolts of strange, white lightning strafe the plains in various places, but they don't have the look or the crack of usual thunder.

In the distance is a small, overturned car, rusting, but probably worth having a look for salvageables. At least it's in the opposite direction of the jungle, which means he'll be gaining some ground on the Careers. Cato is purposely slow, and pained, as he limps towards the overturned car. The thunder cracks on, and the sleet is cold down his collar. Halfway, and he puts his shirt and jacket back on, feeling the benefit right away.

Just as he drops down by the side of the car, the anthem begins to play.

The fallen include both tributes from eleven, Delysia, the girl from four, male from nine and ten. So, overall there have been fourteen fallen, and there are ten tributes left. Cato watches until the light goes out and the music fades to silence, leaving him in the cold, purple darkness of the eclipse. He lets out a sigh of relief, because, thank whatever stars there are, Peeta I alive, and that means Cato can find him.

But if he were Peeta, where would he go? Cato knows the boy can't have been near the train that hung over the cliff, or he'd be most likely dead. And he'd got that ally, too, Irving, the girl who's handy with thee crossbow, who claimed the first kill at the cornucopia. They have packs, but probably need water. Cato doesn't know the arena well enough to speculate, and this time around he doesn't have Clove to confer with, or to kiss, or to love. Cato kicks at the hard, plains ground, slick with moisture, and curses, stuck.

He goes to step around the shell of the car when a hand snakes from beneath it and latches onto his ankle. It's followed by a face.

"Peeta?" The boy nods once, with a smile too big for his face. And then he vomits.


	30. Act 7, Scene 3

A man inside a room is shaking hands with other men.

This is how it happens, after all. The decisions and words are forms of kindness, but here the kindness is a card game. All serious, all business, with money and politics and power, sympathies and strings and blackmail.

And then there's Clove, weaving between them, wearing this tight, false smile, loving so hard and so deep that she can no longer recall who she once was. But, in desperation, she dances with the once who brought her here. It's all for Cato, it's all for getting him home, so she smiles and she laughs and she says all the right words because it won't last forever, and because it's working.

When their eyes are on her, Clove licks her lips and bows her head and plays to the angle. It's not as if she chose this role at all, no, that was all Cato's doing, his _bon mots_ in his interview, but she's one better, playing along, making it sincere enough. It's the men she's playing, he ones that fall so easily that she owes more than she could ever give.

"Please," Clove always makes sure to say. "He's got the best chance of winning," She tells them. Even if he's playing tributes and not odds, death and not numbers, it remains true. "He's got the best reason to come home," And it's then Clove takes in a breath and shuts her eyes and tries to look weak. They're suckers, all of them, these Capitol jesters, handing over their treasures at the drop of a lovestory.

So, the mark she plays shakes hands with other men, and they give her the means. Clove knows that it cannot last forever, but she's afraid she'll outlast Cato, which terrifies her. He's so strong though, it seems he could survive anything.

He _can_, that's the thing. Cato will get through everything apart from the last thing. It's just a matter of where they'll be when the last thing hits.

So Clove smiles and sobs and makes an elaborate pantomime of need and then they shake hands, make deals. Transaction over, she shuffles, weak, destitute, across the lobby and then back towards her room. The elevator doors close around her, keeping the freakish Capitol citizens firmly on the outside and her on the inside, pure, alone. In the moment she has alone she recorrects her posture, and her face becomes hard, unfeeling and unreadable again. Honest once again, without the factor of being watched. Here, of course, Clove knows it better than most, that to socialise is to compromise herself.

And Clove can handle it, she can deal with being alone, only able to watch, able to send but overall powerless. She can handle it but she cannot bear it, the emptiness around her, and in her bed, and her thoughts, and her arms. Nobody swears at her or curses her or calms her when she wakes in the night, because she has been waking in the night, terrified, hearing the growl of the mutts and feeling the cold, metal clang of the cornucopia. Why is it Cato's voice, ringing out in her nightmares, and only Peeta's when she dreams softly?

So, she goes, all grim and solitary, and she opens her door and shuts it behind her and the sound echoes throughout the place with not a friendly ghost to absorb the sound. It rings out, and she's aloe, she's powerless and it seems bottomless. Clove goes from strength to nothing in a second, breaking as soon as she sees the flowers on her mantle, the cheaper ones, the bluer ones the colour of Cato's eyes, and in a moment she's dropped to her knees with tears.

It is horrifying. Because Clove does not cry. She doesn't, she never lets him win like this. But now she fears she will never stop, unable to help, and unable to look away. How she has survived the last ten hours, of watching him, struggle up every damn seat on that hanging train, watching the seats snap, having him hanging, helpless, over the precipice, with nothing to offer but fear has driven her mad.

And Peeta? He grows only lovelier, and more unobtainable. He's younger than Clove was, and Clove had won, she had brawled and murdered and the boy has done nothing but avoid, and pine, too, after Cato like some cheap romance novel heroine. Peeta's plenty smart, he can pick his battles, and so far he hasn't picked any. If he goes with Cato, they would be nigh indestructible. But then Clove remembers the temporary nature of the alliance and it doesn't seem so comforting.

For the life of her, she cannot figure the boy out, either. It's the nature of blue eyes, she has found. Those blue eyes, different from either Cato, all sharp and cold, or Peeta's, like bright summer water. She knows she cannot trust the colour, because it's deceptive and duplicit and God forbid any daughter of hers should have blue eyes, so that every time she looks she will see all that she loves and most likely one she will lose. God forbid she has to look at any other shade of blue than Peeta's, or Cato's.

Alone is a state of being, though. It simply is, and neither asks for or rejects company. And it's not like Clove hasn't been alone before, in that monster of a house, sometimes passing Cato, but never often enough to feel the benefit. But now, God, now she's lonely, which isn't a state of being at all, it's a need, a necessity for company, and for people or words. It's not enough to watch them. It's not. Clove wants to fall through the screen and into Cato's arms and have him call her sweetheart in an unkind snarl.

So, loneliness dances with one that brings it, and Clove turns on using the confusing remote, she turns on the television by the bed and fumbles with the buttons until she gets District 2, male tribute. At least there are no more trains. And she looks, seeing the speck of a man, bleeding, injured, but otherwise okay, heading towards where the lightning cracks down on damask earth. The plains where the thunder strikes twice a minute.

She wonders what he's looking for, or why he's even out there. Cato heads to the only object on the thunder plains: the overturned car, and it appears to be for nothing. Of course, that's before-…

"Peeta?" She can't be sure it's him, too small, obscured by flashes of thunder and by seeing only blonde. But it must be, because that's exactly what Cato says, and then she feels a smile too big for her face because they're both okay, and alive, and together. She can Sponsor them both, even if only for a little while.

In the smile Peeta gives, she thinks it's all going to be okay. But then he turns over and retches.

The men In the next room will need some persuading.

And meanwhile, Cato has gone from delight to panic. He hoists Peeta out from under the vehicle and then sits him up, arms hooked under Peeta's pits. He doesn't dare lift him to standing, afraid that the wound in his side will split again and begin to bleed, vigorously. His head is swimming from all the things he doesn't know, but none of those things matter, what matters is he's got Peeta and they're safe and they're going to win, at least, one of them will get home to Clove.

Peeta gasps, wiping at his mouth and feeling the acidity and heat of bile itching his bottom lip. He thinks it's all going to be fine until he takes in another breath and the air is too sulphurous for him to stomach. He leans forward, retching again, and doesn't come up until he feels lighter than smoke in livery. And then his ears have popped and Cato has thrown him over one shoulder like a burlap sack and they go towards the jungle, pale and strange. For a good few seconds he's too dazed to even speak but then Peeta wriggles and opens his mouth, sure there's nothing left he can vomit.

"We have to go back," he says, rasping. "Irving is going to come back for me,"

Cato pauses. They can both tell how weak he is from the shake in his legs and the glazed-over look in his eyes, where he isn't one-hundred per cent engaged with the world around him. What's to see? The darkness of the eclipse that keeps them both in fear and vague shapes? Or perhaps the flashes of thunder that illuminate the gloom and make it a little easier to see, but a little harder to walk? Cato wants for home, and he wants for a pair of brown eyes to fix on him, all pleased, but trying to hide it. He wants for Clove to glare hard and call him a stupid bastard in her way, with colours on her tongue.

"Okay," He says, after too long. "Can you walk?"

Peeta nods. "I can walk," There's something he's not saying, either. It's in the way the boy looks at him, his eyes feeling somehow heavy, and he wants to ask if Cato's back is still aligned or if there' grass growing on the corners of his bed. There's too much on Peeta's sleeves, and it's too much to do with Cato, and he wants to go out into the wilderness and bury it all, but he knows he can't.

In silence, they head back to the overturned car, and Peeta slips under the space between the vehicle and the ground. Cato waits out in the thunder until he hears Peeta calling him.

"C'mon down, the air's great,"

So he does. Cato's much taller than Peeta, and Irving, and he's built better than the both of them. It takes him great effort and held breath to slip under, into, not darkness, but a soft glow, not unlike Peeta's jacket at the tribute parade. It comes from an improvised lamp. Peeta or Irving have taken their canteen and sawed at it, making holes in the sides and bottom. Inside is a string of fabric that has been lit. It burns slowly and provides a light that's hard to distinguish from the outside. In fact, here's much more room than Cato would have initially guessed.

But not that much more.

"You're sick," He says, slowly, after a while. Peeta looks up from fiddling with the makeshift lamp and makes a face, lifting and dropping one shoulder in a lazy shrug that makes him look younger. That's pride, and Peeta won't swallow it for fear that it will claw it's way out of him. "You are. What's wrong?"

The boy gets out a bitter laugh. "If I was going to drop dead, don't you think I would have done it by now?" And that's not like Peeta at all, he never sounds like that, and he's usually so much softer, and kinder. Cato has nothing to offer, nothing to give that will make this okay. His forte is not diplomacy, it's violence and he's giving up that damn sword for Clove's sake.

"C'mere," he tries for a tone with grit and authority but Cato is still tried and he cannot remember much of anything, he feels smaller, somehow, less important. "Peeta," He says, and he has not once called the boy by name, it's always some mean little moniker, or some reminder of his servitude. Here, they are equals and Cato reminds him with the single, soft word. Peeta wants to give it all up and die here, by Cato's side, because what a privilege, what a heavenly way to die.

Slowly, as if untrusting, Peeta moves forward, and Cato presses a hand to his forehead. "You're feverish," he says.

"Foolish," Peeta mutters, and Cato gives him this half-smile, reserved for only honest amusement which comes few and far between.

(Peeta has seen him in company and around others. And Cato is solitary but he puts it all on, the comments and the opinions and the agreements. None of them seem to have figured it out, but when Peeta sees it, he knows that Cato doesn't get the joke, he just needs the laugh. He feels honoured to be traded honesty for the like. )

"What did you eat?" With a shaky set of hands, Cato frees some space and Peeta goes to lie down, but he protests. "No, it's okay." He takes in a breath. "Rest here. There's not so much room,"

Peeta nearly dies when he's allowed to press his back against Cato's warm chest and feel that strong pulse shuddering through the both of them. The smell of Cato's body and the feel of his eyes, sharp and snowy, like glaciers, resting on Peeta's shoulder are welcome, they are wanted. They have been alone inside his mind and Peeta has kissed him a thousand times.

So Peeta pretends to be grateful for the logical argument.

"I'm okay," he says, feebly, trying to make the moment last, trying to remember everything about it. The thunder continues outside, but he's become used to the sound, he doesn't mind too much. He jumps a damn near mile when Cato brings an arm around and rests it on the boy's brow.

"Christ, you are the_ worst _liar," Like it's all some big joke, and then Peeta doesn't want the moment to last because it's imperfect and the fire of a burning question has smoke being belched from his ears like his thought processes are chutes too narrow. "What's the matter with you?" And if that's how Cato wants it, fine. Peeta sits up and pulls away from the place he so desperately wants to nestle into and stay, and he swallows.

"You are!" He snaps. "If I could, I would tie you to a goddamn daydream and auction you off to my fondest memories," Maybe that's too cryptic. Maybe it means nothing but Peeta can't think, that's the problem, he can't think because of Cato, it's his entire fault and he can't even say that.

Cato looks blindsided. "I don't understand,"

"No, you don't." Peeta hisses to him. "How dare you kiss me and-" He chokes on his own sentiment and starts over, staring at the ground, anywhere but Cato because it isn't fair, to feel angry but then be robbed of all feeling but love when he sees Cato. "How dare you kiss me and linger there like some stuttered apology,"

It takes a lifetime for Cato to reply. "I'm sorry,"

"You're sorry," Peeta says, slowly. He uses the words he was born with, the eloquence. "You are. And you're stapled to the back of my mind, so I remember you beautiful." Peeta is speeding up erratically; he's becoming furious with each word he says, because the words are like wine and it turns out he's a mean drunk. "You're a married man, Cato, and you're cracked, you're spilling blood on everything!"

"What does that mean?" Cato gets out, sounding afraid, but exasperated, too, as if he has no idea what to do. That's true to life, and it's fair, because ever since he can remember, Peeta gets tongue-tied when it matters and he talks in jargon which is fine until he's asked to decipher it. What is he trying to say?

"You wasted my time." Peeta says, but by now the words have taken it out of him and his face is ghostlier than the eclipse, his breathing is laboured and he's swaying like he'll fall. He does, too, and Cato leans up to steady him, careful not to touch too much, to seem forward and hard to Peeta's words.

The boy wants to talk some more, and maybe it's not for Cato so much as it is for Peeta, too.

He says "For the longest time, I thought it was Clove,"

Cato eases the boy onto his back, so that he's not using any unnecessary energy, and tries to keep his voice quiet and soft. Cato isn't, though, he's not nurturing or nice. "You thought Clove was what?"

Peeta smiles, faintly. "I thought I loved her. Because I would wake up from a beautiful dream of another, and I couldn't remember, so I assumed it was her," His voice is croaky, now, he sounds too young. "Why not? She's beautiful, and smart,"

Cato smirks. "Careful, now," He jokes. "Or she'll consider running away with herself,"

Peeta laughs, and then coughs, all soupy and horrible. His face is glistening with sweat, and his hair is glistening with gold, and it's the blue of his eyes like Galbana Lillies that Cato looks at when he listens. "It was you. I didn't know until I kissed her. But Clove was right,"

Cato frowns. "Right about what?"

"About how she felt. It was just me she was wrong about," Which is fine, but then Peeta leans up on his elbows and looks at Cato with this colour in his eyes that's perfect and Peeta knows it, yes this is what's been missing, this is what causes the feeling of numbness in his mouth that leaves him slack-jawed.

Peeta could not tell you what Cato's favourite colour is. He could not say if the man likes dawn or dusk, or peacetime or war, or death or chocolate. He knows so little about Cato, and barely sees what the man's face looks like without sorrow on it, but he knows they are both allergic to the same things. He knows they both reel at words like 'beautiful' or 'love', that open arms give them nightmares and forgiveness is provided for by the rain, because it will wash everything away if you let it.

He knows that Cato carries around a guitar case full of phobias and can turn fear into his strongest instrument. And it seems like good reason for the boy to lift a hand to Cato's face.

In a second they kiss. It's swift, and clumsy in the glooming, but perfect, too, because Cato bites his lip and sucks Katniss' name out of his mouth so that she never comes up in conversation. Cato is gentle but present and he tastes like a stuttering soliloquy, the heat of his mouth illuminates Peeta's darkness and now he can only speak in angel wings, absorbed, turned all sorts of on and alive, his skin is singing, and his soul sings with the glory of love.

And then it's over, and it knocks the wind out of him, but that's just life, reminding him of how much his lungs love air.

And then, something awful, Cato goes to leave. He pulls away, and scuttles towards the only exit, crouched so that he looks like a grasshopper, and Peeta is suddenly so afraid of being alone, of having to think about Clove, and what she'd do if she saw, because she probably has seen. At least if Cato is here, and his eyes are on Peeta, he doesn't feel so accountable.

"Hey." Peeta manages, with conviction, with tone. It's not His Place to be quiet or invisible anymore, and as equals he's allowed to want Cato, he's allowed to be wanted in return. "You're safer in here,"

Cato looks pained. "I need to clear my head," He explains, In a voice that does not belong. He would sooner issue it to Clove, for all of the right reasons to be worried, than Peeta and his invincible spring. The boy does not take him at his word.

"I'm not going to stop you," Peeta says simply, because he's not. And it makes Cato even more confused, as if he cannot follow the thought long enough to make sense of it.

"I don't love you," Cato says, strangely.

Peeta stares at the dirt. "I know that."

"And I don't want to be,"

"I don't want you to, either." Peeta rubs at his temples and then he finally looks at Cato.

There are those boys with blue eyes, and blue he should not trust, like his own. He falls for them too easy, thinking he sees right through. The scope of Cato's depth is terrifying, thrilling, and he takes a leap thinking the blue there is deep but it's deceptive, shrinks to dirty ice and then melts to bright blue water, once again confusing. He wouldn't trust that blue as far as he could throw a mirror.

"Just-…" Peeta feels even worse than he did. He sets himself down and swallows the nitric of the air, ignoring the strikes of thunder outside. It has started to rain, but he seeks not redemption or forgetfulness. Cato freezes when he hears somebody whistling, but Peeta does not move, not until Irving slips into the minute space with them, two squirrels and a crossbow with her.

She smiles.

"Just dance with the one who saved you, alright?"

And nothing more is said.

Cato knows he's done wrong, and he can remedy it. But this is not love, or lust, or something different from either. He relights the lamp when it goes out and watches the boy from a distance, thinking. He amputates the parts of himself that loves Peeta's smell.

And he burns the sheets.


	31. Act 7, Scene 4

Voices wake him from his deepest sleep.

Cato rouses in a second and surveys his surroundings, flashes of thunder now rumbling away like a dull rumour of some other war, less deadly than the air that shudders pale with snow, and those flakes come with stealth, fingering for his face. The cold is only matched by the constant darkness of the eclipse.

He's sleeping out in the snow, one half of his body having warmed the shell of the vehicle that the others have taken shelter under. Maybe Cato shouldn't be sleeping, maybe he should stand firm in his position as the guard but the plains are barren and constantly strafed by thunder. Why would anybody come here? How could anybody find them? That, and when he sleeps, he dreams, and he dreams of Clove, of home. It's the smallest things he finds that ache his soul, like the feel of sunlight in the summer, or the smell of the marble dust on the highstreet at home. Or of Clove's skin like wintry cream, and her eyes, so cold, but open, only for him.

The four dreams in a row are all of her, and she seems so goddamned real each time, he reaches out to find her love but finds only a madness that makes topcoats of his misery. And when he wakes, he ties knots in a length of rope to put his mind into passivity. Some hours ago, Peeta received his first Sponsor, a tin of something that made him sweat awful, but reduced whatever fever he had been labouring under. Cato wonders when his next will come. Any sign from Clove is a good sign, as if somehow reminding him that she still exists, that she isn't some god-awful psiren that torments hi in his sleep.

The voices that woke him are closer, now, and he feels himself panic. Of the ten tributes left, he can only hope what is left of the Career pack have not come to finish him off, but he isn't playing the numbers, and when he does, he always seems to lose. Between the shell of the old car, and the ground, Cato slips a hand and clicks his fingers.

"Peeta," He says. Peeta is his goddamned priority, and to some extent his responsibility. And even if this alliance is only temporary, Cato could stand to impart a few tips, because even if it seems like it never happened, even if he has pretended before, he did win this thing once, he's still the favourite. "Wake up!" He snaps. A face appears in the gap, but the wrong one.

Irving scrambles out, with a little knife gripped close to her, and Cato calls for Peeta again. Very slowly, a slightly-stronger -looking, but still fraught with jaundice Surplus emerges. The first thing Cato sees of him is the embedded time, and it's the first time he feels the slightest bit of shame. Here, Peeta is a human being, he has hopes and wishes and fears, but that never seemed relevant in the buying or beating of Peeta when he was working back in 2. There isn't any time for shame. He commits an apology to memory.

Peeta is in no hurry at all until an arrow, tipped with fire, land half a metre to his left. It burns impossibly bright, even in the snow-moistened ground, and Peeta scrambles up, stumbling a few times, getting a fairway from the vehicle. Cato is all ready to bolt when the girl, that stupid girl, dives back between the ground and the old car. She's after something, her token, a weapon? Whatever it is, she's only in there a minute before two arrows, this time, shoot a horrifying distance, one extinguished as it buries itself in the ground, and the other hits the car.

The voice are closer now. Cato finishes up stuffing his sleeping bag into his pack and sling it over his shoulder. He turns. "We have to leave." Peeta looks at Irving, scrambling to get out, now, and Cato. His face is white now.

"I'm ready." Irving says, almost brightly. There's a terrible clank of metal on metal, and Cato spots this idle metal flask pouring out impossible blue liquid onto the shell of the old car. Two arrows follow suit, and Cato thinks, they can do this, they can get away, Jesus, they can still get home if the girl hurries. But it's not liquid. The blue is resin.

In a second, the entire shell of the car bursts into an enormous blue flame that seems to roar as it consumes the rusted metal. The whole thing belches smoke, and Cato is ready to run, again, when he hears the girl, only fifteen or so, just a child, screaming. It takes him a few minutes, but Peeta manages to pull her out by the hand they can see. Almost immediately, Cato knows they should have left her to die.

The resin had poured through from the cracks in the chassis of the car, and the left side of her body, essentially, is roasting, some wet with resin, some of her skin still burning. Blood-blistered patches where the fire has died but makes her almost unrecognisable. Whatever Irving had gone back for, she has not managed to retrieve in the panic of everything. Choking, the girl is heaved to standing by Peeta, who hooks her good arm over his shoulder. He looks up at Cato, pleadingly, uselessly.

"Go," Irving coughs. "Dammit, get out of here-"

Cato looks ready to leave, but Peeta shoots him a look. "Not a chance," And he limps forward, with Irving. Together, they're impossibly slow, and the resin is still burning, the voices are still audible. Her dark clothes are somehow darker with black blood. Peeling, roasted skin and blood paralyse her left side. She'll never be able to move in time.

"Peeta-" Cato begins, morosely. Peeta trudges on, clearly struggling with both of their weights, his face red with indignation.

"No!" He snaps. "You're going to be fine," He turns to Irving, still spluttering. "We're going to get you out of here." They can see her obvious gratitude, and reluctance, and the civil war going on begins the girl's eyes. Accepting Peeta's help puts them all at risk, but on her own, Irving knows she is certain to succumb. Cato cannot afford the risk.

"They're coming!" He snaps. The Surplus whirls on him.

"We're not leaving her!"

And not once would Cato ever deign to take orders from a Surplus, or even some kid from 12, but here, in the midst of this, Cato knows he cannot reason, or will be listened to, so he dips his head and takes the girl's side, scooping her from Peeta, and lifting her. She weights nothing, and couldn't tip forty-five kilos drowning. She moans out in pain, and Cato can stand the gore and the blood. What he cannot stand is the smell of her burning flesh, not too dissimilar to something he knows. Safe and familiar. He nearly vomits when he realises what it is that Irving's roasting skin smells like: the sunday roast.

He sets off into a jog, trying to keep the girl from pain, and Peeta leads the way, through the thicket of the jungle and then into the thickest part of the wood.

"Water," The boy says, still hurried and frantic. "We need to get to a river."

He sighs, knowing there's no arguing with Peeta now. He's stubborn, too much so, just like Clove, and the only way to deal with it is to follow suit. "Lead on, Macduff." He mumbles.

Peeta takes a sharp turn left and they continue with this haste, even though the wreckage is far out of sight and the voice are distant enough to not be heard. At least, not over the sound of Cato trying to catch his breath. In his mind, last year's Games were not nearly so brutal, or wearying. "It's actually 'lay on'." The Surplus laughs. "_Lay_ on, Macduff."

Cato lets out a breath. "Really? Here?" His annoyance over not being listened to is making him impatient. "How about finding us a damn river, Macduff?" Irving murmurs, and Cato thinks to stop, but the girl has drifted into a rest, no doubt shutting down to try and recover from the burns still plaguing her.

"I'm trying!" Peeta snaps, turning around. He's just as worn out as the rest of them, because nobody sleeps too well in the arena anyway, but Peeta is still a little weak. "_You're _welcome to try,"

Cato adjusts Irving's body in his arms to make a point. "We wouldn't have to find anything if you had just done what I asked you to,"

Peeta is shouting now. "You expected me to just leave her?"

"I expected you to have my back!"

Peeta pushes his shoulders back and shouts right into Cato's face. "I had your back!"

"How could you possibly with _her _on _yours_?" Out of breath, and furious, he slumps on an overturned tree and takes a deep breath in. Cato is usually so systematic, he can deal with the stress and all of this, but there's Peeta and Cato's got his pride all tangled in this one, tangled up with thoughts of Clove and the possibility that he might have kissed Peeta because he wanted to and not just because he wanted Sponsors. It's making him reckless, and Cato is better than that. "I never asked for heroics, okay?" He sighs. "I just asked you to stay alive,"

Peeta seems to consider everything before he nods, silently. "There's a lake in the next clearing," And he drops his eyes. "Just do this one thing and you can get back to her," Peeta doesn't even mean that. He's the worst liar. So Cato stands and he feels this horrible emptiness inside of him, this want for something, but not food or water or something else. For a second, the scar on his side doesn't ache so much and he steps forward.

Peeta is close so he leans down and they kiss again and it's different from Clove, not better or worse but new, and that want seems to be fulfilled, for the smallest moment the Sponsors and the Capitol don't matter and Cato gets filled with this warmth._ Yes_, he thinks, _this is what has been missing_, this is what he wants. When he pulls away, Peeta is slackjawed and blushing like mad, so he straightens and smirks.

"Right," Peeta says, in a squeak. His face is still fixed in shock when Cato managed to free a hand and give him a gentle shove.

"Lay on, then." And then, after a few minutes of silence. "Who the hell is Macduff, anyway?"

"It's not important,"

They come to a clearing soon enough, and just as Peeta had said, there's a surface of clear blue water. In the darkness of the eclipse, it looks almost indigo, and Cato has never been more glad to see it in his whole life. He wastes no time with pleasantries, and he lowers Irving, still half-asleep, into the water. The girl has never sounded gladder. Her eyes snap open and she sighs.

"Thankyou," She says, addressing Cato.

"Thank Peeta," He says, awkwardly. "I hesitated," The Surplus steps forward.

"You're losing a lot of heat," He says, nervously. "You got burned pretty bad, you need to rest," It's at that point that Peeta sort of knows he can't do much for her at all, down her side the burns are extensive and her insides are too exposed, there isn't enough tissue to stop the bite of the snow or the risk of infection. They need to get her a Sponsor, but who'd Sponsor her? So far, Irving has proven herself useful, but to Peeta. Not to those watching.

Peeta wraps her in the sleeping bag with permission from Cato and they regroup before heading on. At least now they have water, and half a ration of dry food, but nothing else. The light from the eclipse is changing slowly, never enough that Cato can tell if he's in sunlight or moonlight, although here the two are irrelevant, despite his shadow at dawn rising to greet him or his shadow at dusk striding behind him. The infinity is only mapped by Peeta's occasional murmurs. The time on his wrist is inescapable.

Well into the early morning, they pause where the snow is thicker. The cornucopia cannot be far off, because this part of the jungle is colder, nothing beautiful grows here, it would have no business. They pause in a slightly less dense clearing and try to take stock of their assets, laying them on the ground like a holy relic or a mystery novel: scrapes of dry food, a flask nearly-full of water, a sleeping bad, some rope, matches, a disk-sized bandage, a small knife, and a switchblade.

None of them can go to hunt without leaving the others too exposed. And Irving, God, she's in such a bad way, Peeta knows she'll be lucky to last a few more days and it hurts to look at her, this girl who helped and saved and joked with him, the one who felt a bit more like home. Her death is incredibly painful already, her body has started to shut down in places. He doesn't know what to do, he's afraid. Peeta gives himself room to breathe, he fears he might cry.

He flinches when Cato lays a hand on him. "We can't do much more,"

"There's got to be something," The boy assures himself more than Cato, that's Peeta's problem, he can't help helping, and life rafts may get you to safety but they don't take you anywhere and Cato has places he needs to go to, one person in particular he'd like to see just once more. "What can we do?" Peeta whispers to himself. "Come on, there's got to be something," He shuts his eyes. "Christ, this is unbearable,"

For a second, all of Peeta's attention belongs to Cato, and the moment passes so quick that it breaks something. And it's not like Cato is broken-hearted, but he's kind of pissed off. All of that drama, that bittersweet confession to Caesar, and it's like Peeta has forgotten. Looking over, it's obvious Peeta knows they should do something, to put the girl out of her misery, but Peeta has neither the will or the lack of moral stamina. At least Cato can distance himself, at least he's had experience.

"Peeta," He says, in a voice that tries to say it all, and it's been so long since Cato has killed, and for once, this isn't out of bloodthirst or revenge or want to go home, even though he does. Mercy feels strange, makes his heart climb onto his ribs and do the monkey-bars so that he feels like a child all over again. And he can't ignore the feeling. "Peeta, she's in pain."

"I know," Peeta says, woodenly.

"We can't do anything to help her." It's not guilt, but there's something sour, now Cato isn't so sure what to do, and he needs direction, he needs Clove, but he also needs something else, something that has been missing before, peace, and eyes like still green water, and hair like summer. He knows he needs Peeta, too.

(And Peeta knows it, too, it scares him. In the beginning, he was going to play it off cool, he had never been an easy ride, can you really see him in a fine restaurant or swimming out to see, no, he's never been anybody's fish in the sea. But Cato? He has lips like wasabi, and Peeta knows all at once that he will be broken, that Cato is going to leave him so god-damned dead that there will be body bags under his eyes from nights sleepless with tears. But Cato likes breaking things, and Peeta likes him.)

"What should we do?" Peeta looks up at him, hopelessly, his eyes all wide and full of this innocence, Cato can't stand the purity of it, he would throw dirt in that Surplus' eyed rather than know how far hey have all fallen from grace. He takes it as incentive. Peeta needs guidance, here. He needs to be trained.

"She won't-"

"No," Peeta's face turns nearly blue. He shakes his head furiously. "She's not a racehorse, we can help her-"

"How?" Cato sighs. He tries to extricate the sticky caramel emotion that is coating his ribs. "It's not as if I want to do this. But she's tired, Peeta," Oh, Jesus. Just like the first time they laid eyes on one another, Peeta begins to blubber, hiding his face behind his wrists and sobbing, all heart, all emotion. That's a dangerous game. "Careers won't exercise restraint because she's a-"

"A human being!" The boy weeps. It takes him so long to compose himself, and when he does, Peeta wipes at his face, all ruddy with tears, and he nods miserably. "I know," He says. "I know," And, for the life of him, Cato cannot overcome the urge to want to protect Peeta, to care for him. He puts his arms around the Surplus and says nothing. "You mustn't hurt her. You can't make it hurt –you cant –you have to..."

"Okay," Cato says, but it's not okay, it hasn't been for so long. And then, to himself, quiet so that Peeta won't hear it, he tells himself, and maybe even Irving, "A target's a target,"

In the clearing, he gathers the vine that looks like electrical wire, thick and coppery and twisted tight. It mashes into a paste, and he takes the switchblade, very carefully, making two scratches across the back of Irving's left hand. He presses the paste into the blood, and it seems to take. She's already pale beyond death, and weak. The girl splutters, and complains of agony when she wakes. Peeta's tears are like the barrel of a gun, confusing Cato's memory of which side is right and wrong, which is mercy or cruelty.

The poison takes holdd of her, but it's very subtle. Dark blue lines appear by the scratches, his only indication, and Cato remains by her side until the girl actually starts to stir. It's terrifying. Hoe can he face a girl who has helped him, and Peeta, who has a family and a future, maybe even a boyfriend or a lover. What if Thresh had gotten to Clove before him? The sentiment is beyond belief for Cato. He tries to imagine her meaning nothing, but it's difficult.

In the darkness, Irving sits up, slowly, still agonised. Her face is practically blue from being so near to death, not from the poison, but from exposure, and weakness.

"You scared me," She rasps, with this tiny smile. Cato stares at the ground, or his feet. He cannot afford to feel. Compassion will defeat him. "Are they coming?" She asks. He shakes his head. "Good," Irving manages. "There aren't many left. You must be anxious to get back to her,"

Cato nods, distantly. "I am," He lifts a hand, and presents the girl with something beautiful, something Peeta had wanted for her because he could offer nothing else, and knew it would comfort her. Galbanna Lillies. That grow in 12, sometimes. Irving can barely lift a hand to grasp the stem.

"Galbanna Lilly," She laughs. "They were giving them out on the morning of the reaping," Her voice is dwindling. There isn't much longer. God, she's too young, so full of vitality to go like this, useless, and so world-weary that Cato's mercy is a gift to help shake the yolk of inauspicious stars. "My sister was given one,"

Cato chokes back that tear in his throat that will tear him to piece like a whisper through a crowd. "This one is for you,"

She stares down at it, and then back to Cato. "Are you going to kill me now?" Her eyes are shining dangerously, but she's practically gone. The ghost of her remains. Peeta would not watch, so he stands far away, to watch, to guard.

He can only nod. "I killed you while you were sleeping," Then, quieter. "With root rust,"

Irving chokes. "Will it hurt?"

"Not a bit,"

The girl brings the blue flower under her nose and inhales it as if the oxygen elsewhere is unsubstantial. Only her eyes, and the trails her tears have begun to cut are visible in the dark. "_Thank you_," She blubbers. "Even if it means nothing-"

"It means everything," He assures her.

"Good luck," She whispers. "May the odds be _ever_ in your favour," Irving gets out a small laugh, and there, she dies, leaving not a friendly drop for Cato to follow. The canon fires a few seconds after. He carries her boy out into the river and lays her down on the bank, eyes closed.

Later, to Peeta, Cato asks. "Is it meaningless to apologise?"

And the boy says, "Never,"

He thinks of poverty and squalor, and the barefoot children of District 12, and then the girl, brave, too brave, who had given him Peeta. "I'm so sorry," He says. He puts three fingers to his lip[s, and raises an arm. Peeta does the same. Just for one second, he wants to hold somebody accountable for that girl's death, not a contestant, and not himself, but the Capitol, the viewers.

The hand means goodbye. It means farewell to somebody you love or care for. That they are safe and good now. That you will see them soon.


	32. Act 7, Scene 5

The arena is as dark as the ocean floor when Clove gets away. She leaves the image of her love sleeping. The imminence of a Sponsor staves off the guilt long enough. She pulls on a nightgown and blinks at the projection on her wall, assured of Cato's peace by the way he sleeps. His arm is curled, just-so, expectant from a good year of being shoulder-to-shoulder in their bed. For want of her, and if he reaches out, he will find either madness or Peeta.

She's not sure which she prefers.

They've got time. Cato isn't dying anytime soon, right? Everybody knows it's going to hurt, but at least they're going to get hurt trying. It's midnight, at least, but Clove likes the emptiness of this place at night, how the lights in the city circle look so inviting and beautiful from a distance. Not up close, and Clove thinks she's like that, not pretty up close, but passable from a distance. She doesn't care, though. Not about the lights, or how she looks. God, she just wants Cato home. She's scared of being alone. And even more so at a time like this.

The ride up to the roof is silent. It's an unseasonably warm night, even for summer here, and Clove wants to go back home, she wishes she was somehow smaller. It's everything here, the too-hot nights, and the too-manic Capitol citizens and the too-rich foods and the small kicks that remind her every moment about home, in 2, about Peeta at midnight, and Cato in the mornings.

She wants him to feel her like the aftershock of an earthquake, or the antidote of orgasm, the anger in skin at the sight of a beautiful woman, or the agony as the nails run through his Saintly hands, is that really, really creepy?

(If it is, then Clove should also say that she wants him waking next to her, sleepy-eyed in the mornings. She wants long breakfasts, and curses and longing gazes over ivy-covered balustrades, and tea at midnight, even though Cato doesn't drink it, but hey, Clove likes tea and Cato likes her.)

The winds on the roof are calm but present, and she likes the noise from a distance, the faint roar, the flickering screens. Cato knows he's being watched, no doubt, look to Clove for help and believing as does a dead soldier that right in the heaven he dwells, that when he falls in a corner of some foreign field that he believes he's in paradise. Clove takes a seat and peers over the edge. She doesn't want to jump anymore. But she wants Cato to pull her back anyway.

Her loneliness is shot back at her when her daughter kicks her, and she nearly bursts into tears. She'd be beautiful and pale and look too much like _him_. And if Cato dies, Clove will not survive with his ghost in their daughter's face. He will rip every last piece of Cato out of her smile. She will swallow the memories even if they claw their way back up her throat.

The quiet hits her and in the distance, on the main screen, she sees this tiny silver parachute gifted from the gods, falling like the snow. It buries itself in the tree besides Peeta, who does not stir. It's not even intended for him. Cato is a light sleeper, from years of training, he wakes up, prepared with the smallest of knives but no food.

He wastes no time in tearing the thing open, unclasping and fiddling, hands frozen into fists. It's nothing, really, and he'll need more than food to survive, but it's a good start. She working on getting him a sword, which would be the most expensive gift ever sent, topping even Finnick Odair's trident all those years ago. But, for now, it's a tin of hot soup, and it'll keep him going. Only after inspecting the sponsor does Cato think to read the note, which is signed Clove's name, and reads simply: _'So, if you come here, you'll find me'_.

Cato stares up at the darkness of the sky with this stupid, cocky smile that makes Clove love and despise him. "I'm working on it, _sweetheart_," He grins, and leans over, shaking Peeta into alertness.

Clove turns away. She can't bear to watch, seeing Cato, who she loves, all over Peeta who she isn't sure if she feels for. At times, in the night, she wonders if either are feeling lonely, or if there's somebody loving them at that moment, and it hurts. Because her bed is empty, and she's alone, she's afraid. What if he never makes it back? Leaves her like this, with nothing to her name but nightmares, and ghosts?

"I'll be waiting, here." The voice shocks Clove and she spins, feeling suddenly lightheaded and uncertain. The words, too, force her into shock and the moment she realizes the face isn't a friendly one, her guard goes up. Clove can say nothing. She folds her arms across her chest at the man. "I'm sorry," Cinna says, in a soft voice. "I didn't mean to startle you,"

"You didn't," Clove hedges.

Cinna goes to speak, and then laughs. "You were quoting the soldier's prayer," His voice is so calm and masterful, as if his opinions are law, and while Clove wants to scowl ad seem cold, Cinna feels safe and she's tried, so she sits, her face neutral in thought. "On your Sponsor."

"Yes," Clove says. "The prayer about dying in battle," She strokes her tummy absently and thinks, for a moment. You can say what you like about honesty, really, but Clove has a habit of being brutal with it, and she's seeking it when she turns to the intruder. "Do you think he'll die?"

Cinna seems to internalise the possibility. "He's the favourite to win,"

"No," Clove shakes her head. She re-adjusts herself and looks him straight in his eyes. "I'm not asking what they think. I'm asking if you think Cato will die or not,"

And Cinna smiles this queer, knowing smile that makes Clove trusting and uneasy at the same time, because this an cares for Peeta, he's helped him, so why should he want to help Cato, the opposition? The logic isn't there, and she feels afraid by the reaction she's produced. Cinna pulls up his sleeve to reveal a small, golden canary on a chain, bound around his wrist. "Do you know why they send canaries down in the mines?"

Clove shakes her head, mute.

"To test for smoke, or gas. It would only take a spark to set an entire mine alight if the canary dies." He pulls down his sleeve and cuts his eyes from side to side before looking at Clove again. "But if the canary lives, it's safe to proceed."

Then Clove gets it. She claps a hand over her mouth and then tears it away in horror. "Peeta," She says, sharply. "You're going to make him a martyr!"

Cinna shakes his head. "No, we're going to make him a symbol. Peeta will get out and he won't go without Cato." At her hesitance, he smiles. "Cato will be fine."

"And Peeta?" Her heart feels like it's under her tongue. "What are you going to make him a symbol for?" Dramatic, and suspicious, Cinna leans in and looks at her, as if examining how trustworthy she is based on her appearance, before deciding to go ahead anyway.

"Rebellion," Clove is undone. It cuts all of her strings at once. "Fire is catching." Cinna says, and he stands up. She wants to call him back as he walks away, but Clove doesn't know what to say. Just as he goes, she explodes.

"I want to help," And Cinna smiles to her.

"I want your help," he says. "But for now, just keep watching,"

Clove turns back to the screen. Cato is curled over the soup, handing spoonfuls to Peeta every now and then, with too-soft touches and too-intimate glances. Is Peeta really is it, the symbol of whatever rebellion there is, Clove only hopes he knows what he's doing.

*

In the dark of the morning Peeta wakes with a terrifying start. His face is white and he's sweating something terrific, drowning in the sheets and his own tears as he comes to, lost and frightened. Alert for danger, Cato moves over to his side and lets the boy speak.

Stuttering with tears, Peeta gets some words out, "It was Irving-…" He whimpers, "I could hear her, and she was-"

Cato wants nothing more than to be kind to Peeta, to treat him akin to Clove, with broad easy touches and softness, tenderness. But Peeta has been treated with kindness too much, he's soft and breakable and too damn emotional. If Peeta ever wants to get home, he needs to cut all of those strings.

"She was here, and her skin –her skin was burning –she was dying, right there and I couldn't –I couldn't even look at her-" He's rambling now, nearly insane and speaking furiously fast, it's almost impossible. Cato takes him by the shoulders and gives him a good shake.

"Quiet," He hisses, but Peeta is delirious with tears.

"We could have helped her, we should have-" And that's enough to make Cato see red. He hits Peeta as hard as he can muster around the side of the face, leaving him rendered speechless and pallid. Eventually, his breathing regulated and he looks a little less lost in his own nightmares. Cato lifts a finger to his lips, asking for silence, and he sighs.

"If you're not quiet, you're going to get us both killed," He says, and then knows he has to twist the knife, he has to train Peeta like he was trained, no heart, no light. "You saw what they did to Irving," And when Peeta starts to look even more frightened, Cato's body sags a little and he rubs the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry," Peeta gets out.

"It's okay," Cato assures him, reluctantly. He sighs and ploughs a hand through his hair. "It's just a trick, y'know. It's just empathy."

Peeta sighs and nods, he tries to get himself together. It seems hard to imagine Cato remorseless, but then again, he isn't exactly the same as he was, swaggering, indoctrinated. Really, Cato hasn't been a Career for a long time. He outgrew it. Of all the others Cato killed, Irving seems to get to him. Perhaps because it was out of pity. Perhaps because he has something to get back to, this time.

"It'll be over soon," For a long time, Cato looks into the midspace, his face hard with seriousness. "You can be sorry then," And he stands, suddenly akin to a soldier. His back is straight and he seems to feel nothing. He gathers up the few supplies around him. "Come on," Cato commands him. "They're going to be tracking us,"

Peeta wipes away the trails of his tears. "I know that," He says, weakly, but Cato walks on, so he panics and starts shouting again. "I know that!" And when Cato whirls on him, the boy becomes timid. "But I'm not like you. I'm tired." With an attitude like that, Peeta's going to get eaten alive. Cato is very aware that he's 'the one to kill' because of Clove, and her steady stream of Sponsors. It wouldn't surprise him to find Cashmere waiting with a loaded bow around the next tree.

"You get five minutes," He says, sternly. It's not him being heartless, not really. You can kill with kindness, and Cato needs Peeta very much alive.

They set off exactly five minutes later, in silence. Or, what wills to be silence, but Cato realises quickly that Peeta is slow, and he's noises. It's as if he's trying to snap every branch underfoot, and crunch all of the foliage. Frankly, it's embarrassing, and it's scaring all Game away and bringing all the other contestants closer. Cato isn't slow, and he's not bad with knife, but avoiding a fight would be better than getting worn out in one, or worse.

"I'm sorry," Peeta says. Not that Cato will ever admit it to anybody, ever, unless it is torn out of him, when Peeta says stupid things like that and tips his head to the side, it really does seem to make it all better. Cato grimaces.

"You're too soft," He says, even though he only half-means it. "And loud. Take your shoes off," The most infuriating thing about Peeta is his compliance. His meekness, or maybe it's kindness but whatever it is, his purity makes it hard for Cato to be angry. Because in his experience, love, or whatever this is, an infatuation that dare not speak it's name, isn't like any other. Cato is used to jealousy and hostility, and cruelty and distance. Peeta is forgiving. Peeta sees him at his worst and raises him one better.

The light changes, ever-so-slightly, and they cover more ground. Cato isn't sure where he's taking them, but moving is safer than staying still. He's stayed still too damn long, his whole life, for the exception of Clove. He knows he's become slightly-wound, and shapeless, with no room for change, but it's this Surplus, this nowhere boy that has blown in like a raggedy tumbleweed and set their souls alight.

Sometimes, Cato wants to lean down and kiss Peeta again, He loves the sight of Peeta all shocked, so innocent, with his lips like a stuttering apology that taste like the last thing Cato was ever really good at. Half of him remembers the Capitol is watching, but doesn't care over a kiss like that. The other half remembers Clove, pictures her sitting in the darkness of a room, watching with her hand on her heart or her stomach, feeling the betrayal in her pulse.

"Why me?" Cato asks, suddenly, as it tears from him before his body reacts. "Why me, and Katniss?" Silence. The kind of silence that twitches like fire. Napalm quiet, the tick-tick-tick before the bomb but without the bomb and Peeta scans over Cato and tastes the answer in his mouth before deciding the share the flavour of the day, using words.

"You're both stubborn," Peeta smiles, faintly. Part of him, it's the blue in the eyes, turning ever-so-slightly colder that reveals is pain at the mention of her ghost, but there's also pride. The Indignance and unadulterated honesty of the Surplus. "You both try to do what's right. You _like_ to be right. You're only happy when you're doing something specific-"

Cato blinks. He tries to remember everything about Girl on Fire. All of these things Peeta has mentioned, they're all very pretty and sure, they sound great but they don't seem to mean anything, and that's not like Peeta at all.

"You're both trying to protect something desperately, someone you love, and you're so committed to it,"

"Clove doesn't need me," Cato says, woodenly. "Everything I touch turns to shit," Shaking his head, Peeta turns around, arms akimbo, and he looks so young but so old, too, this age that's not physical, or even mental, but something else a lot harder to explain.

"You ever heard the phrase 'diamond in the rough'?" Peeta smiles, faintly. It doesn't ring a bell, so Cato shakes his head. It makes Peeta laugh. "Have Clove explain it to you, when you get back,"

_If I get back_, Cato remarks to himself.

It's at Clove's mention that he realises, this alliance can only be temporary. There are ten tributes left, himself included, and at this stage the fighting has dulled. Cato can outlast them, and he can outfight them. Better to part ways now then have to lean over Peeta's body and poison him in his sleep, give him flowers like sprinkling wreath n the grave of a slaughter'd youth like it's okay when it's not. If Cato gets home, on his own, even if he loses Peeta, clever Peeta, Saint of a boy, who uses words like swords and challenged Cato and liked poetry and beautiful things even though he grew up in squalor and has this look on his face that says 'I wish anybody _would_ say something'.

Clove is his favourite poem and Cato has read her every night, their kind of love has to be a verb. And fear is only real if you let it be and Clove has turned to him said and cursed, said 'don't you dare let go of my hand'. That's his favourite line, it's full of dust and when he sneezes and his heart stops for a millisecond. His breath will turn silver the day her hair does.

That's what prompts him to turn to Peeta all certain and say. "I'm sorry,"

And Peeta nearly bursts into tears. He looks up at Cato as if his opinions are law, desperately searching for something to cling to, but Cato is closed to sympathy. "You don't mean-" Cato nods, and Peeta echoes with his eyes.

The Surplus throws his arms around Cato, starting to blubber, wiping at his eyes, trying to remain strong but failing because Peeta feels too much, he invests himself where beautiful things have no business. Peeta's small, but tall enough to bury himself and breathe Cato in like he's the last molecule of air in a gas chamber and his heartbeat sounds like _love love love love love is like sunlight_. Sometimes you have to get burned to know you were there.

And Cato want to kiss him full of sweetness and regret and to know what forever tastes like but he can't, so he takes Peeta by the shoulders and gives him a good shake. "Hey." Then, louder. "Hey, look at me," Peeta's sad; Galbanna blue eyes flick up, slowly. "You made me a promise. No matter what you-…" He stops, quelling his own tears. "No matter what you _feel_, no matter what happens to me-"

"Don't die," Peeta sobs. "You can't," He gasps out. "I love-"

"Don't say that," Cato begs him. His voice is dangerously pinched and Cato never cries, not for anybody and he won't here, when they're all watching. There are better times to mourn, and neither of them are dead yet. His hands are shaking when he rubs a thumb over Peeta's cheek. "Don't cry," But he's breaking. His throat feels like a pinhole. He swallows hard. "Don't do that, Peeta. Don't…don't cry,"

Peeta's voice is a train wreck. His words drop like a suitcase of habits nobody wants to keep. "Just try to win. If you can,"

Cato nods. He is undone. "I'll try. I did before." And Peeta is all sorts of broken, his strings have been cut and this isn't how they're supposed to go, Peeta's brave and clever, Cato has ruined him. They're helpless. They've failed eachother.

"Please," Peeta whispers, against the skin of his shoulder, hoarse with tears. "I thought I was spend the rest of my life with you," A matter of days or hours or minutes, but it makes all of the difference. And here, this endless man, this invincible boy with the smirk that says 'come here and say that', the symbol that all the rebels will be watching has faltered, unable to continue at the hands of love. "I thought I was ready to die,"

Peeta never sounds like that. Not ever. Cato tucks a finger under his chin and remains serious. "You're not going to do that. I'll kill you if you dare," And they both let out small, broken laughs, before Cato breaks, his shoulders begin to sag and his eyes sting. He wraps his arms around Peeta. Nothing he will ever do will be this important. "Don't you leave Clove on her own. You promised me-"

"I love you," Peeta blubbers.

"I know," Cato says, distantly. He stares at the snow, falling under the darkness, and Peeta clings to him, sodden and a little useless but invincible. Still as beautiful as always, and if he stood just-so with his arms out in front of him, he could fly away.

In the tiniest voice possible, Peeta whispers. "I'm afraid, Cato,"

And Cato whispers back. "Me, too." And they stay like that for the largest eternity, like all of the infinite numbers between 0 and 1, unmeasured and immeasurable, because Cato might be talking or he might be silent, cursing or whispering sweet nothing but what would it matter anyway? All of the things he would think to say are true, like invisible light, but he can't say, or prove, or show, so he keeps quiet, he breathes Peeta in.

Instead, he gives Peeta the knife. "If I see Katniss…" He begins. Peeta takes the handle of the knife, ad he nods.

"Thank you," He breaths.

So Cato turns. And Cato runs. And Cato doesn't look back. Voices and rustlings pass him by for hours and hours, and his eyes are wide and shiny from tears that don't dare fall. Cato thinks he's done with life and love alike for certain.

Until Clove appears before him.


	33. Act 7, Scene 6

In the middle of the night, she comes to him.

Wearing a cloak of midnight around her shoulders and constellations on the backs of her hands, she moves like a sleeping tide. The darkness of night is blind under the eclipse, but Cato sees her before him because her skin is so pale, so white that it appears bluish and glowing. It's impossible, not even a chance, but when he lifts a shaking hand and catches his breath, he cannot doubt it.

"How about that kiss, Clover? He says, in disbelief, trying a smile. To look at her, strange and long and lovely makes his brain ache and his skin whimper because Cato knows he had left her before, not sad to kiss her off, never hearing to which front she would go.

And this apparition, this hallucination, she laughs mirthlessly, that' just like clove, but she never thinks to touch Cato. She's right there, so close, and he wants her, Jesus, the thought of her skin makes him sick in the night, all nauseous, waking in a cold sweat but not haunted. Cato reaches out a hand but she pulls away, shaking her head, teasing him.

"I'll be here," She tells him, in a whisper, turning away, moving and wanting Cato to follow where he should not go, he should not leave his post as guard for Peeta, who's sick and dying. But she pulls him by the tendons in his heart and it hurts, Jesus Christ, she kills him softly.

"Clove-…" He says, in a mildly alarmed tone, putting out a hand, suddenly afraid. He doesn't want her to leave, but he cannot follow, and yet his feet have begun to move and she's too much too soon. It isn't possible but Cato can see her with his own damn eyes.

"I'll be here, waiting," And she continues, never sparing him a glance back, never daring to care, but that's Clove, she's always been like that. Cato is too physical for her, they shouldn't work but they do and he wants her, he loves her.

"Slow down," Cato orders her; he has started to break into a jog through the thicket. Clove is now nearly invisible because she's so far ahead, going around twists and turns, laughing, and only giving him flashes of her skin here and there. "Dammnit, Clove," He gasps, all out of breath because the wound in his side slows him down and it stretches when he takes big gulps of the ammoniac night air.

"I'll be waiting for you," And it's not possible that he voice sounds so damn tender when she's here, with all of those people watching. Clove isn't like that, she doesn't play to the angle of wife or mother or damsel, and she wouldn't let Cato win, ever. "So if you come here, you'll find me,"

And then he can no longer see the flash of her skin and it all seems so ridiculous, so unreal, but the eclipse is silent and Cato is bathed in darkness, his pulse running miles, his skin hard with goosepimples, it's cold and snowing and the crunch of slight snow echoes as he swipes through the thicket where he saw her last. And it widens out onto a bank that makes visible a large lake, a good distance across, frozen solid.

Clove is standing in the middle of the ice, her lips as red as blood in this gown as white as the sins she has scrubbed out.

"You know where to find me," She calls to him, her voice too-smooth and too-kind, she doesn't sound like that ever. Cato stands firmly planted on the bank, watching, and wanting, but stuck with his heart in his throat. To hell with the Capitol and their lovestory between a Surplus and his owner. Cato doesn't want them to smile, those paper people in their paper houses, all demented with the mania of owning things.

"You know what you have to do." It brings his eyes back onto her. Clove dares a smile, but Cato is frozen.

"Get back onto the bank, _sweetheart._" He growls at her. "The ice is thin, Clove, you'll drown-"

She clips her eyes shuts and laughs. "Apollo stood on the high cliff," She says. It's the complete calm that unnerves Cato. She spares not a thought for the thin ice or the cold, death-giving waters or even others, that would make cups of her blood. Clove seems lost in her words. "Come to the edge, he said."

"Dammnit, Clove!" Cato says, and then, because he's scared, he's so goddamn afraid that he feels like a child again, he starts to scream, "You listen to me!"

"We can't, they said," In a reverie, she continues. "It's too high-"

He takes a step forward, onto the edge of the ice, that cracks horrifyingly beneath him. It curdles his blood to something solid, and he's heard that the heart stops when you sneeze so this place must be full of dust, he cannot hear the comfort of his pulse. Cato dares another two steps before the ice groans. Clove is still a fairway out, but he fears his body will move no more.

"Stop it!" He calls out again. "You're going to drown!" He swears. "And I can't-…" All at once Cato's breath catches and he's hit by how useless he Is here and how Clove's eyes are still closed and her skin still appears to glow. "…I can't swim."

"Come to the edge, he said," Clove laughs to him, like this is all big joke, and when he looks at her again he wonders how it is Clove can stand there and feel nothing. The ice groans again and he panics, staggering another few, pained steps closer to Clove and further from land. "We can't, they said, it's too high."

"Clove, I'm begging you!" Cato howls. "Think about this!" And then, because he's moving forward now and he's afraid and he hasn't really thought it through. "Think about our daughter."

Clove takes in a slow breath with this coy smile. "Come to the edge, he said." She opens her eyes, and looks at Cato just once, passing her eyes over his face. "They came, he pushed them. And they flew." Patches of ice have sunk completely. The water is swallowing them up slowly, and the lake is deep to the point of endlessness. Cato will drown. Clove will drown with him.

Cato is so much closer, now, she's practically in his arms and he goes to grab for her, but Clove is further than he thinks. The ice to her left is cracked and water is spilling onto the ice. More groans. They haven't much time. "C'mon, Clove. Walk forward a little."

Clove's eyes are closed again. "Are you trying to save my soul?" Her toes are soaking and she's practically gone.

Cato feels so faint, so barely alive. "What?" He whimpers. "Clove, look at me!"

She does not. Clove leans her head back and laughs. She moves across and to her left, the ice silent but dangerous and she leans forward to get a better look at where the ice meets water. "Are you trying to save my soul?"

The ice splits in a horrifying crack, and Clove disappears into the inky water.

"Clove!" Cato staggers back, slipping to stay on his feet but managing, somehow. He cannot see anything, Clove has vanished entirely into the lake, with nothing to indicate she was ever there. He throws himself onto his knees and swishes at the water, trying to find her, but it's so cold, it's stings and feels worse than bleeding. He has lost her. Oh, Jesus, he's lost her and he can't even swim to save her.

Faintly, he recalls something from a safety advertisement from the victory tour in six, something about frozen lakes. Instantly, he starts to tear off his clothes, casting them off onto the ice besides them. With incredible speed, he saves the boots for last and keeps his belt, knife tucked in, and then gives one last forlorn look at the black water before throwing himself in after her.

Down and down, like a rabbit's hole but wetter than if he had been crying. The cold stings his eyes and Cato chokes, swallowing water that floods his lungs and forces him to choke. The silver of moonlight visible in this eclipse dies out and becomes shiny, watery, and fainter as he goes deeper to his death. Petrified, he manages to turn himself until his feet are closest to the surface and he pushes himself, kicking and thrashing, further into the lake.

Because he cannot lose Clove, she gives his life sense and meaning. Peeta is like lightning, it flashes bright and beautiful, but leaves scars in it's wake, everything else that it hits or gets to is nothing more than collateral damage. But Clove, Clove is forgiving, she's the rain, and the rain will wash away everything if you let it. The rain feeds the earth, it's a cold reminder and a nice respite from the harsh sunlight.

What has he to win for, if Clove dies? Peeta? Because neither one can win, or live, will the other is alive, and Cato will not raise a hand to sunder one that would be his enemy, but who is closer to his love. He would rather die here, a thousand times, he'd rather drown here than lose either of them, the boy with the stories, or Clove, and her ailing heart, criminal eyes. She says she's still In love: if that's true, what's there to be done?

Cato shuts his eyes and grabs out, blindly. His lungs feel thin, and it seems Clove is nowhere, she has disappeared. Cato will not give up on her, not until he's certain of death. In the darkness behind his eyes, he can see nothing, but all at once he feels sharp, bony fingers, and he reaches out, grasping, tugging upwards. His eyes snap open in the darkness and he kicks away, upwards, abandoning the search the moment he takes the hand of a skeleton. His world is slowly draining of colour, and spikes of red, like blood, blur his vision. Cato cannot swim, but he thrashes and kicks and batters his legs wildly against the black waters until he begins to rise towards the surface.

It seems like an insurmountable distance. Cato feels his limbs grow heavy like they're lacking pulse, but he cannot afford to drown, he cannot afford the chase skeletons and phantoms, so he kicks up as hard as he can, for what seems like the largest of eternities, and then the moonlight becomes visible, the air is within his grasp, but when he reaches out, he's trapped.

The lake has frozen over.

His throat is closing up, and Cato fumbles in the near-black darkness to find the blade on his belt. The ice is thick and he manages to free the knife enough to jab it against the ice. It slips clean from his grasp and sinks, alarmingly fast, back into the darkness. Cato panics, he grabs for it, but cannot get it, and there's no time, he's going to drown, so he starts to claw with his hands, scratching until his fingers go raw and then start to bleed.

He can't breathe. The water is thick with blood and the moon is just there, he could reach out and grab it –his fingers are bleeding, he wonders if he has scratched them to the bone, but Clove isn't here, she never was, why would she come here? He's going to _die die die die-_

The ice gives, just a little, but it's enough! Cato jams his fist through the gap and splits the ice around it, launching himself up and breathing in all the air he can get, feeling the warm rush into his lungs. He chokes and splutters up water, before taking in another gulp of air. He drops back into the depths and tears through more ice, enough that he can kick himself up, and clamber up onto the ice.

His voice is hoarse when he racks a smile. "I'm alive," He laughs, gutturally. "Jesus," And his arms collapse beneath him, he rolls onto his back, freezing, shaking. His eyes are covered by a heavy, blonde, fringe, and a few feet away are his clothes. After a few minutes, he finds will to crawl over to them, and dress, slowly, savouring the difference in temperature.

Somewhere far off he hears the roar of the canon, twice, and he wonders if any other tributes have been led by psiren to drowning. At first, it's almost comical, but then he remembers Peeta, and his first love, Katniss, and it stops being funny, and becomes something else.

Most of the water has frozen to ice, and the ice seems more stable. Cato makes it onto the bank without trouble and then heaves himself to standing, trying to set off into a run. He stumbles, God, he's so, he has had enough of this world. He manages through the jungle, shaking, staggering over branches. He's being loud and clumsy, but it doesn't seem to matter.

At least, not until he hears them. Careers.

"The rest are in alliances," That must be Cashmere. She sounds hale and hearty, and it makes Cato's blood chunky with ice. He dives under into where the undergrowth is thickest, behind a tree on it's side, and remains very still on his front.

"Three are out on the thunder plains," A male remarks. Cato isn't too sure if it's Gloss, or the male from four, but he doesn't care too much providing they don't see him. He doesn't even bother to look up, but remains presses into the soil, breathing as quietly as possible. "Only groups of two. Nothing we can't handle,"

They pause, momentarily. "I wouldn't underestimate 3. If they get their hands on some tech, we won't be able to get near them," Cato vaguely remembers Beetee using some kind of wire and frying the last tributes in his Games alive, but who'd Sponsor him now? At least, he wouldn't.

"Let's just leave the others to kill eachother," Cashmere laughs, mirthlessly. It sets Cato's teeth on edge, and he remembers Peeta, so indignant, so horrified, gasping out about the pride of the Surplus. The others don't seem too thrilled at her suggestion.

"Don't be stupid. 12 was getting pretty cosy with them in training." A sigh. "And as for Cato,"

He holds his breath.

"We really should put him out of his misery," Thy start to move on again. Cato's body is taught as a bowstring and tense to the point of pain. Why are they after him? The only kill of his was out of mercy, he isn't exactly hunting them down. Somewhere far off, he hears Cashmere say "leave that Surplus for me," And Cato knows there's no time to waste. After all he can hear is the chirp of crickets, Cato scrambles up to his feet and starts in the opposite direction to the Careers, towards the plains, where he saw Peeta last.

It's moving into early morning, about. The Gamemakers are messing with their tributes, because Clove is far away, in the Capitol, what Cato saw was just an illusion, or a shade. It's not like they have never used jabberjays to induce madness. Hearing her scream would throw him right over the edge. He needs to find Peeta. It will kill him.

But right now, he's alive, and Clove is delirious with sobbing. Her head is spinning. She is torn between joy, complete joy that even after all of this, he loves her, and horror that he could die so easily. Cato will not bow out bravely, she's so sure of that, he will kick and scream and she couldn't for the life of her watch.

But then there's the reverse. Cato can't swim. He jumped in straight after what he thought was Clove. He would go to the ends of the earth for her, but she's not asking him to.

She'll send him a sword, and then what? Cato could probably stick the Careers, two-at-a-time, and Peeta, too, but 3 have him outsmarted. They have lasted long enough that they will no longer be ignored. What if Beetee gets hold of one of those awful wires? Cato, her Cato, cynical and mean and cruel and so lovely, deserves a fate better than being fried by some District 3. Something Cato and Clove both know if that he's too vain for that fate.

It's not vanity that draws him to Peeta. Clove's joy fades fast when Cato calls out for the boy, because Peeta means something to her, a great deal, but she's already lost Cato once, she won't do it again. He seems to be dillydallying along the road to perdition, instead of finding a way back to her, instead of finding _via purifico_.

Loud, and staggering towards the plains, Cato is actually calling out. The stupid bastard is nearly blue from his dip in the lake, his hair slicked away from his face, and Cato looks young, he looks good, but young, too. Spread of blood on his left cheek from his hands obscure the shadows on his face. A high ravine runs to the right of him, all steeped in snow, and that's where he finds the girl.

But a moment too late.

"Where's Peeta?" He speaks to the ghost before him, a hade, the best the Gamemakers could do, but far from perfect.

Katniss had greyer eyes and darker skin. She was half an inch or so taller, and much leaner. Her voice was plainer, and colder. Her features were just but she was not pretty in the fashionable, girly, sense. He doesn't dare touch her, or try to, but stares at all of her flaws. "I said-"

She raises a hand, and the look in her eyes suns him to fear. Actual fear. How can a shade have so much power over him? Cato knows it's stupid, but looking at her, he feels himself grow weak. She parallels Clove in too many ways. "I know what you said," Her voice is blunt.

"I'm looking for-"

She silences him again. "I know what you're looking for. Why are you here?"

Cato freezes up. He swallows. Katniss, in his memory, was not merciful to him. She tried so hard to get home, too hard. "I'm just trying to find Peeta," He mumbles. Her eyes are drilling into his skull and exposing he nerve channels. The night air makes him sweat and shiver. "I understand why you're here-"

"Of course you do," She begins forward at a horrifyingly slow pace, coming shoulder-to-shoulder with him, pressing a hand on his shoulder and whispering hotly into his ear. "You've seen them die. You think you know." She tightens her grip on him, with nails in flesh. "I'll tell you a riddle," She lets go, and begins to walk around him.

"Are you, are you coming to the tree? Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me. Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be; if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree." Katniss stares hard at him. "Why would she go?" The girl takes a step closer. Something sharp is in her hand. The lines of right and wrong and delusion are blurred. "Why would she meet him?"

"Because she loves him," Peeta's voice makes Cato flinch a mile He moves backwards slowly until he feels Peeta against him. Peeta seems just as perplexed. "Nothing else matters."

Katniss turns on him. "How can it not matter?"

Peeta looks as if he'll cry. "Because they'll be together." He walks forward, towards her, in a trance. "Because living is irrelevant without him," And Peeta takes her braid in one hand, her runs his fingers along it, and he leans in to kiss her.

Resin explodes to the left of him.

"Careers!" Cato calls out. He steps forward and pulls Peeta back by his collar before pulling them both off. Towards the plains. However far back the Careers are, they seem to feel in hot pursuit, and Peeta runs with him, throwing glances over his shoulder. They run for as far as they can, and slow to a jog, never daring to stop.

Peeta is breathless with tears. "We can't just let her die!" _But she isn't real.  
_  
"Peeta," Cato gasps out. The boy doesn't listen so he gives him a good shake. "Dammit, Peeta, she's already dead!"

Peeta punches him. It seems to come from nowhere, and it actually hurts, Jesus, Cato falls backwards, and Peeta curses him. "Don't say that!" Cato scrambles to his feet and takes Peeta by the shoulders, not shaking him, but just looking at him.

"You make your choice now. Her or me," And he sets off running again, towards the plains, leaving Peeta frozen in thought, weighing up the loves he can never have, he will never have, curse his stupid, ailing heart. He sets off after Cato and calls for him, too, just as they descend on the thunder plains.

"You!" Peeta calls out. "Always you,"

And Cato might say something sweet, he just might. He says "I-" And he stops completely.

The lightning passes right through him, and a blackened body gets thrown back onto the dark prairie soil.

Peeta screams. "Cato!"

And Clove screams. Surrounded by many people, in a public place, she throws herself from her seat to standing and screams for him. It's all over. God. All of it. The life she has is destroyed and Cato isn't moving, she doesn't understand, the canon hasn't fired but he's unmoving, breathing, useless and helpless.

Gasps erupt from the crows around her and Clove feels a horrible cool sensation, the hem of her dress, and her legs shine with moisture and they start to swarm on her. It's the shock that's done it, but it's too soon. It can't be. She'll be alone, and she can't do this alone.

Strangers come in a gaggle to her and offer help, but she tries to get away, to refuse them. She stares up at the screen and Peeta s shaking Cato's body, he's trying to help, but Cato's body, what once was, remains paralysed, his face singed in places but intact, and his eyes wide open in shock, emotionless. They bore into Clove's soul, and snip all the strings in her heart.

She fights and fights, and they take her by the arms, and all the while, Cato remains motionless. Just staring.


	34. Act 8, Scene 1

Lightning smells like a forest fire. The pages of his soul have caught alive. Peeta will die here. He will die here and how because he chooses to.

The eclipse is in full stride, and he wears midnight on his shoulders and the moon like starlight on his skin, Peeta is beautiful, but what does that matter? Everything around him is at it's ugliest. His heart is pulsing in his mouth, choking him with every beat as he bends, so slowly, too-slowly, towards Cato. His skin is black and frighteningly warm. But most of all, the eyes. Cato's warm, blue eyes like the flowers in 2, or the sea in 4.

They remain open, staring ahead vacantly, the life and soul torn out of them. With a trembling hand, Peeta closes them, where he can bear to look no more. They have become as cold as the seam, as cold as her, in death. Eyes closed, Cato may as well be sleeping. His wet, pink lips are slightly parted, and Peeta could lean down and kiss him. He could bridge the gap and feel the warmth that lingers there. Death in all of it's lechery and grotesqueness has not advanced on the slight blush, on his perfection.

Cato's hair is black from the contact. A single strip of golden-blonde runs through the blonde, as if Cato wears the lighting like a talisman, laying so boldly and peacefully, his body a rod of thunder for those who would take up mantel of villain.

"I thought your eyes closed when you died, Cato," Peeta manages, soft as he can. He's too shocked to cry. To notice the voices closing in, or the darkness. He feels the light on his face change, and the slither of sun behind the eclipse has turned blood-red. Out of respect, Peeta does not kiss him, even though he should. He should kiss Cato for a last time, but instead, eh takes his hand.

"Isn't it beautiful?" He chokes, and then looks back at Cato's face. "Isn't it-..." And them, something in the tiniest of his voices breaks, he cannot stop thinking about the parade and about Cato, and that is he's a canary, what would Cato be. Something majestic, and the the word mockingjay makes Peeta sob even harder. As if rehearsed, he drops his head into Cato's lap and clings to that cooling hand desperately.

"Where do mockingjays go when they die?" The canon cracks through his words, and the blood in them spills out onto the prairie grass and drowns him. Cato's body is still warm and Peeta has seen him sleep, it's as if he'll wake laughing at something Peeta has said or will say. But there's no more laughing. There are no flowers in the plains. The lightning is the only colour aside from the eclipse.

And Peeta, he's lost. Gripped by this desperate need to give Cato something, anything, but he has not a word to his name. It isn't fair. It's not fair! And Peeta never, he never got to say, there were so many times that he wanted to turn to Cato and tell him what he felt, fearing it would burst from his heart, and now Cato will never know.

He's gone from this world. Peeta thinks, he thinks that to die so young, too young, is a crime. But Peeta never deserved him. Nobody did, apart from maybe Clove. The darkness is turning to blood-red and the hovercraft will come, but he's not ready. Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it-...isn't it over, already?

"Is it meaningless to apologise?" Peeta asks, his voice weak. The tears are unintentional. They wet Cato's shirt with no consent or acknowledgement from Peeta. There's not much time, so he takes both of Cato's hands and sits up. "I'm sorry. I'll look after Clove. I promise,"

He sniffs. "Goodbye, Cato. You saved me," Through the incoherency of tears, he tries to manage. "I love you. Ever since you played me the Valley song," His eyes burn with sorrow. "I'll never play it again. I'll never play it like you." And if this is the hero's errand, it doesn't feel very heroic, not even the slightest. His thoughts flee when the loud beating of the hoverwrafts propellers signal that he should go, but he wont. From nowhere, it seems voices draw near, but not those of Careers, nto those with malicious intent.

Beetee kneels besides the body, unnervingly calm. And when did Cato become just a body, a corpse? A vessel, when he used to be filled with vitality. Beetee takes Peeta's arm, trying to extricate him.

"You have to let him go," The hovercraft draws nearer to the ground. Peeta holds tighter, and shakes his head.

"I never got the chance to say goodbye," He wails. Beetee tugs harder.

"You will. But you have to leave him."

In a moment of desperation, Peeta throws himself over the body, sobbing. "Where do mockingjays go when they die?" And nobody, not even Beetee, in his kindness, will allow Peeta a moment. He pulls the boy backwards, and they fall into the tall grass. Peeta tries to climb back, but the net from he hovercraft shoots out and envelopes the black, stiff body and heaves it skyward.

The hovercraft isn't like the one that took Irving away, but Peeta doesn't look at it much, he stares at Cato long and hard. He lifts three fingers, places them to his lips, and raises his hand. "Godspeed," He blubbers, and then crumbles to pieces.

Beetee places a hand on the boy's sagging shoulders and sighs. He doesn't speak from platitudes. Peeta believes him when he says "There are other worlds to sing in."

And Clove, Jesus, Clove, she's hysterical with tears. Somehow, she's managed to get herself into the elevator, as the doors snap shut on a whole host of medical avoes and Capitol citizens and she's scared. Cato's gone. She's seen his body being pulled away. She's watches him die, and how it feels as though the burning eclipse is running through her veins, or that horses are tearing her apart. She thinks about when Cato strangled her, and how she'd rather that, a thousand times over, than this.

As the doors close, the pain becomes too unbearable and she slumps against the wall,not saying anything, trying against herself not to cry. She can see Cato, in her minds' eyes, and what he'd do right now. He'd sit beside her and slip an arm over her shoulders and say. "Don't cry, sweetheart, you'll make your face ache,"

Clove wipes at her eyes. "You stupid bastard..." And then she thinks about it all, about how cold she always was, and it stings, she has never felt so awful. Cato wasn't ever kind, but he loved her, for true, he loved her, and he didn't deserve what she gave him. Now Cato wont ever know what she means. "You promised!" Clove howls, dropping her head back against the wall. She can't see through the salt in her eyes. "You said we'd grow old together!"

Something tight grips her from the lungs down, tight and burning and unbearable. Clove cries out for the first time, unwilling to surrender to the pain, but feeling it make her weak. When she moves, ever-so-slightly to try to find peace, she notices the rosy water from beneath her legs and she whimpers. It's tinted with pink and she wonders if that passes for haemoglobin red or something similar, she wonders if it's blood.

Keeping this baby was Cato's idea. Clove had never wanted or thought of children. Her first instinct was to have things 'dealt with', because he life had been perfect, she had Cato, she had a lot of sex, and they had fame, money, adoration. Now she's going to be all alone, with a child that'll have Cato's laugh and his eyes. She's so tired of ghosts, she's so tired.

The elevator doors open. She goes to stager to standing, but some sharper and more intense pain causes her to collapse. The medical staff had obviously taken the stairs. They descend upon her and there's not a thing Clove can do.

Delirious, she grabs the woman to her right with frightening strength. "You find my husband. You get Cato in here now."

The nurse purses her lips and gives her a strange look. "But, m-miss-..."

Clove lets out another howl of pain. She bursts into tears. "He was meant to be here!" She sobs. "He was –he was supposed to –it hurts..." There isn't enough oxygen in the room. And attending helps her to standing.

"That's good and normal." He tries to smile, but it looks as false as his skin colour. "Feeling lots of movement with that pain?"

Clove tries to focus. She keeps hearing Cato, feeling him on her skin and his eyes on her soul, still so hale when he says "How about a kiss, Clover? And for this once, she would swear at him and kiss him in one.

"I don't-" She shakes her head. "I don't feel anything," The staff look equal parts pale amongst themselves. "What does that mean?" She asks. Nobody speaks.

"We're going to need to get you to your room," One tells her. Clove is scared now, very very afraid because she could face anything if Cato were here but he''s not and she's going to be torn apart, they're going to kill her.

"What does it mean?!" Clove starts to shriek. "What does it-"

In the crimson darkness, Peeta swears he sees something strange.

Something small and heavy falls from the hovercraft, and at first Peeta thinks it's something of Cato's, but that wouldn't make sense. He watches it fall to the spot Cato lay, thunder crackling away silently in the sky. His face is ruddy and rouge with tears, and when he turns to speak to Beetee, the man is some distance away, working with a piece of rope. But when Peeta gets closer, he realises that it's wire from the coppery shine.

"You should get gone," Beetee says, in a patient voice. "The Careers will be here soon."

Peeta wipes at his eyes. His heart hurts. "Then why aren't you going?" He asks, in a small voice. The other man looks at him with pity. "And what about Wiress?"

Beetee smiles, faintly. "We'll be right behind you. We're just going to finish laying this wire. It won't take long," Peeta looks panicked.

"But what if they-" Beetee claps him on the shoulder and looks at him, like he wants to recite the world, but he decides against it and they remain in a choked silence. "I don't want to watch you die,"

The older man laughs. "And you won't." He hesitates, swallows, and then laughs again. "We've lost enough time, now get gone. You're important, Peeta, they need you most of all. I don't want you losing more than Cato today," The words are brief and kind and Peeta doesn't understand all of them, so he nods to Beetee, who looks at him very solemnly. "Head for the forcefield, but keep at least five feet from it, okay?"

Peeta nods. "Okay," And he goes, sprinting off on lungs that crinkle like tissue paper engulfed by flames. Where do mockingjays go when they die? And who needs Peeta? Clove? Because Clove only really needs Cato, she never needed Peeta except when she thought that Peeta's words were the same gift as love when they were just kindness, Cato wasn't ever kind but to her, Peeta wishes he heard Cato smile more times than swear or scream.

The Careers must have reached Beetee by now. In the distance, a small figure, that Peeta knows to be Beetee, has lifted the object sat on? Cato's last resting place. It's small and compact, like a backpack, and Beetee managed to attach his wires by the time Gloss comes charging over the hill with a long sword that should have been Cato's.

"Beetee!" Peeta screams. The older man turns fast and throws the wire out before doing something to the pack. The wire turns a dangerous blue and Gloss lights up like a Christmas tree. He gets thrown back several feet and doesn't move again. Peeta watches until he hears the canon crack. And he starts to run towards Beetee, to try to help, because he's sick of being useless, he runs and he's nearly there, too.

Something forces him to the ground. Peeta fights, but he's weak, and his arms are pinned. The assailant, Cashmere, leans down and whispers into his ear "I was saving this up, Surplus."

Peeta struggles, to no avail. "I'm not-"

"Oh, that's right," She laughs, airily. "Your owner was disposed of. Who's going to save you now, Loverboy?"

There's something in the drip they've given her. Clove is seeing ghosts.

Marvel is standing by her besides, leaning on a spear as attendings and staff pass through his image. He fiddles with the head and looks at her, occasionally. His throat is ruby red with blood and the arrow is buried to the head in his neck. Clove is pained but drifting in and out of levels of awareness. She gestures to the arrow.

"Does it hurt?"

Marvel tugs on the shaft of the arrow, but it won't nudge. He looks so young, and so pale. He shrugs. "Not anymore."

Across the room, the girl from five is sat cross-legged eating berries. Her lips are blue from the juices. She says nothing. Clove remembers that she was clever, too Clever. That she ate those berries purposely, because the girl knew she couldn't compete with the likes of Cato. "Can you see her?" She asks Marvel, who stares out across the room.

"Who, Foxface?" Clove nods. "Yes, I can see her." His gaze shifts to the only window in the room and he smiles this faint, queer smile. "Do you see Glimmer?"

"No," Clove says, quietly. "Is she there?"

Marvel smiles. "She's there," He strokes the flights of the arrow that killed him.

"Can you see Cato?" Clove asks, quietly. Marvel looks around carefully.

"No," He says, but points to the door. "But there's Irving," To her surprise, Clove can see a faint projection of the girl, leaning against the wall all nonchalant. Her clothes are torn and the skin of her face is brunt to something awful, but she's still somehow beautiful.

"Why can I see you?" She looks back at Marvel. "Am I going to die?"

He shakes his head. "No," And then, with this strange, sideways smile, he looks at her. "Do you want to?"

Clove runs a hand over her stomach. Everything feels underwater. So she turns to the apparition and gives him the most honest answer. Does she want to die?

"Yes,"

Cashmere pins his arms his his sides with her boots, the blunt knives on the bottom applied with enough force that Peeta thinks she'll slit his wrists and taunt him while he fades to death. That's not gory enough for Cashmere, though, he can tell she wouldn't feel satisfied by it. Slowly, she pulls out an almost dainty, tiny little blade, and she brings it to Peeta's face.

"Now Cato's gone, nobody can protect you," She smiles. "I won't miss him. Useless man. Couldn't even kill a Surpl-" Before she finishes, Peeta lifts his head and spits at her. Cashmere doesn't like that. Not one bit. After wiping I away she takes the sweet little knife between her thumb and forefinger and places it between Peeta's eyes. Hard. The point had gone a few layers of skin deep. Some blood is starting to well.

Cashmere lifts his head up his his fringe and drags the blade as hard as she can down the side of his face.

"Know your place!" She barks, wiping the bloody blade on Peeta's shirt before hitching her body lower. She moves his right arm to pin it against his chest and she lifts the blade again. Her mouth is open like some demented smile, as if she derives some euphoria from Peeta's agony. His cheek is coated in chick blood. It has started to reach his lips, the iron making him splutter. That's all very distracting until she slips the blade under his embedded time.

Cashmere jerks her wrist upwards and pries the component from his wrist, leaving a stark white bone exposed. It spurts with blood, and the pain is intolerable. Peeta thrashes and screams out, but to no avail. In the distance, he can see the other Careers suffering and dying at the hands of the wire, and he thinks that Cashmere is mortal, too.

She lifts a hand and frees his injured arm. Its not much, but it's the best Peeta will get so he takes it, throwing her backwards, and clambering to his feet. He sprints as best he can. Blinded by blood, but he can see well enough that the edge of the arena is in sight. Thunder crackles on. He wonders if it will get Cashmere.

Peeta casts a look back, but he instantly regrets the decision. Cashmere is no more than six feet behind him, wielding a bigger, jagged knife, and intent that's set to kill. Whatever beete is up to, he sure better do it fast because Peeta's running out of options. He's a metre away from the surface when Cashmere jumps onto him, knocking them both flat on the ground. Give Cato my regards," She hisses, and raises the knife.

Peeta is pinned beneath her when the forcefield ruptures, the same electric blue as gloss. It burns the skin on his arms, but Cashmere takes most of the damage. It burns white-hot, and then shatters like glass, into the air, leaving Peeta blind.

Very slowly, he pushes the corpse from on top of him, the skin on her back reduced to nearly a single layer. Where the forcefield stood, people are rushing in. Not avoxes or Gamemakers, Peeta would recognise them.

One takes him and leads him towards the outside. Light is so alien to Peeta. Now the eclipse is gone, and the full moon of a natural evening blinds him. It's warm, too.

"Who are you?" Peeta asks, quietly, and then, louder, he stops and demands an answer. "Where are we going?"

"So Cinna didn't tell you?" The stranger gives Peeta a coy smile. "We're going to the heart of your rebellion."

Peeta doesn't believe the words when he hears them. "We're going to District 13,"

The apparitions are all gone. The drip is dry as the fountain of youth. Clove feels nothing but pain.

The room is filled with people, so many that the air is too thin to breathe, she can't breathe, but they keep on telling her to as if her lungs have forgotten the taste of oxygen. Her face is burning red and sodden with sweat. She isn't strong like Cato was, she doesn't face what she's afraid of but now there's nothing she can do.

"Make it stop," Clove begs the nurse nearest to her. "Please," She gets out in a strangled sob. "I don't want this baby,"

The words leave her feeling numb. She can picture Cato just as numb on hearing them because he really did care, even if he hid it, he cared so much and his faith was never rewarded. Clove longs to have him cursing her and mocking her if only to make life more normal again. Now she's completely alone, totally alone, all alone, and even Marvel's ghost has left her.

Her insides are being shredded. She makes a noise of agony and holds her breath. The air has caught fire, filled with the ammoniac evening, filled with memories of Cato, he loved her, they were kissing...the room smells like lightning and forest fire. Each second is more terrible than the last. Her stomach is heavy with dread.

"I don't want—" She gasps, heaving another sob, another pant, another attempt to have somebody hear her. "I don't want this—" Her heart aches. "Oh, Cato..." She breaks down into tears again, still trembling, trying her best not to tell them of the world-weariness within her, trying to cling to the fantasy of overdosing in the night and slipping peacefully, slowly, back into Cato's arms, where he'd ask her what took so long, where she'd tell him to go to hell, but she'd be smiling because they would already be there.

Clove howls enough that something feels different. They try to encourage her. A little more. A little more, but she cannot stand another war, she's weak, she won't win. There doesn't seem to be a choice. There's blood on the white, starched, sheets. Her brain aches when she swallows and gives one more coarse little breath.

"It's done," The nurse promises her.

A small choke stifles the air. Too small, younger than even Cato, the slaughter'd youth, than even when Moses was a whisper in the reeds.

And then silence.

Clove tries to sit herself up. "I can't hear her," She says, mostly to herself, and then the panic sets in, the fear that even through this she will have failed Cato because the last remaining scarp of his image is silent as the grave. "Why isn't she crying?" Nobody will answer her. Clove starts to shriek. Anybody, she needs just one answer. "Is she dea-"

And then they hear her.

(And in the darkness of the forgotten District, far off, the whir of electronics, and the dull pain of a working atrio-ventricular node, Cato wakes to a memory from his childhood. The dead victor, who isn't dead. "Where's Peeta?"

Haymitch Abernathy clears his throat and smiles. "Don't you worry about that, Loverboy. He'll be along soon enough.)


	35. Act 8, Scene 2

Clove met her match at nine years and so many months old. She was short, and arrogant. She was tough. However, she was largely ignored, and for one reason: she was female.

Her match was the golden boy. The Almasy boy, from a wealthy part of 2. It could not be said that Cato was particularly strong or quick or vicious, for he was all of these things. People didn't much like him, that wasn't really the point, nobody ever really liked a victor. Cato's purpose was always pride. He was proud, he would make his District proud. It was unnerving, really.

Getting paired with a girl, a tiny specimen on a chilly afternoon was pretty insulting. He laughed it up to Clove's face, not because it was funny, but because she would hate it. Tucking a finger under her chin, he smiled.

"Do your worst, _little girl_-" Cato jeered, taller, stronger, less alive. It was all so hilarious until she did. In a single second, she winded him with an elbow to the solar plexus, slapped him hard, brought a foot to the back of his knees to bring him onto his back. And after all of that, when this tiny girl had managed to pin him, she whispered hot in his ear.

"How was that, _little girl_?" And Cato would never admit it, least of all not to Clove, quick and cunning, swift with warning and cold with her heart, that in his eyes, Clove predominated and eclipsed her entire gender. Clove was his only match, and his only doll.

He does not know her face or name. Cato does not feel her memory. The ghost, from his past, sits up, and looks stern.

"Peeta is coming straight from the arena." He says. Cato frowns. He hears thunder in his head, the crackle of it, and a few names, the screaming of a girl, and the faint smell of Sunday roast. But he cannot say from where he found these images. "It'll take much longer to fetch your wife, seeing how she is where she is," Cato shakes his head.

"I'm not-" He coughs. "I'm not married," The ghost waves a hand.

"Or whatever you decide to call it,"

"I'm not!" Cato says, suddenly agitated. "Where are we?" He doesn't let Haymitch answer. The only thing he can think of is a memory burned into him, one that makes no sense. The boy with the words, and the bread, sobbing to him, telling him _'Please. I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with you. I thought I was ready to die.'_Cato is undone. He panics. "And what the hell arena are you talking about?"

"Alright, kid," Haymitch snaps. He leans forward, puzzled, staring at Cato for what feels like years before he blinks, and looks away. "You know who I am?" So Cato nods. "And who do you think Peeta is?"

Cato cannot grasp at an actual answer. "I don't know," he says, quietly. "But we're supposed to spend the rest of our lives together," and then, fiercely. "He loves me."

"And you love him?" Haymitch speaks very slowly.

Cato blushes. He shrugs. "I can't remember." It makes him nervous, and a cold sweat starts to thaw on the case of his spine. Terrified, he watches in silence as Haymitch clicks his tongue slowly.

"Uh-huh," The man sighs deep and looks even the smallest bit sorry for the golden boy. "You remember Clove? Anything at all?"

Cato doesn't know. It's all Peeta in his mind, his childhood, but only fragments, his home, but only the colours, and parts of darkness, but only the sounds and smells. There's only one memory, of a mad woman clawing at the glass casing around him, screaming with tears in her eyes, swearing at Cato. _ "No!" She screams. "You said we'd be together! You said we'd grow old together, you promised!" Her nails scratch at the glass and there's nothing to be done, nothing at all._

_The plate beneath Cato rises. It makes Clove scream louder. He crouches, in the haste of things, and sets his hand against the glass._

_"How about a kiss, Clover?" He says, even though he's crying. "How about a-"_

And then the memory finishes. There's nothing else with her that he can think to recall, but for some reason, when he plays that memory back, his heart hurts. Clover? That must be her name, her full name, or something abouts. He shakes his head very slowly, and then becomes suddenly alarmed.

"What's my name?" He starts out, sheepishly, and then terrified. "What's my name?!" Haymitch sighs slowly, and rises to get to his feet. He looks sad, and that terrifies Cato into numbness. He feels no recognition when the words come.

"Cato. Cato Almasy," Haymitch places a small paper envelope onto the grey table besides Cato, with great care. "This was found on your person." He says, and then he departs.

(Inside is a small, silver ring that's smooth but cold to touch. It fits on his left hand, and it feels as if it should. Cato knows what it is, and who would have given it to him, but there are no memories attached to it. Carefully, he slips it on. He wonders if Peeta has another like it, but that seems unlikely, and nothing in his mind can protest or deny the idea.

There's something else, too. A tiny, black piece of photograph paper. It's entirely dark, and has these grey and white etchings over it in obscure shapes. Like an ink blot, but he can't seem to make a picture out of it. Eventually, after enough turning, his heart begins to hurt in the same way and he places it face-down on the table, unable to look at it. Cato knows what it is, a sonogram.

He just doesn't know why he'd ever have one.)

Cato sleeps.

Across the darkness, the woman weeps. The one in his memory. Clove doesn't mean to do it, but she can't stop crying, and sometimes it overwhelms her, to the point that her tears are so loud, they wake the whisper in the blankets. Now, unlike Peeta, Clove has never had a problem with touch, she's quite casual, physical, reasonable. But she cannot bring herself to touch the child, let alone comfort her.

Through weeping, she looks across the room and cannot bear to see the pale-eyed thing, so miserable, and so afraid. But she sees Cato, too, and then looks away, because it's too much. Drawing her knees to her chest slowly, still aching, she tries to pretend the room is silent. Silent as Cato, as the damp hair of graves. What can she do? What should she do? Frozen, Clove wipes away the tears. She won't cry. She won't them have her so damn weak.

There's no confirmed victor. Why should there be? These people deserve many things, but to have celebration or victory is not one of them.

After what seems forever, with still no silence, the door opens, and a nurse darts in, looking rather put out. She pays Clove no mind, and moves across the room towards the blankets. Clove grits her teeth.

"No, don't-" Her resolve breaks and feels watery when she watches the same blue eyes, tormented, calm and settle. They fix on her from over the nurse's shoulder, and Clove can't stand it. She feels too tired, too weary to stand, but God, she wants to, she wants to scream but her throat is weak and she wants Cato but she's only mortal. Instead, she closes her eyes. "That's enough." She says, bitterly.

The nurse turns to her, undeterred. "We have other residents, Miss." And gives the child one last easy touch before setting her back. And Clove wants almost to reach out but she knows she will only find madness. Maybe she's already losing her mind. Maybe she never had it.

Marvel hasn't made a reappearance. Clove hasn't time for ghosts, save for the prince of a thousand enemies. She shuts her eyes.

"Kara," She says, quietly. "Kara, please," Her throat is dry when she swallows. She'll be dead by sunrise. "Don't cry,"

Cato sleeps.

They say that the beating of a butterfly's wings can cause hurricanes elsewhere. And that seems right. It's called the butterfly effect, and it makes Peeta wonder what the beating of a hovercrafts propellers will do to the rest of the world. To the Captiol. Because everything hangs in this precious little balance, Peeta knows best of all that the world is made up of schemers, and even if the plan is horrible, nobody will say otherwise is everything goes as expected. The moment something goes wrong: everybody loses their minds.

Cato was not a man with a plan. Was he ever? He certainly hadn't planned to give Irving the mercy of death, or ever have her help. Peeta had never had a plan. Once, he had one, that involved winning, and bread, and the girl with seam-gray eyes. And look how well that had turned out. He's not much for bitterness. He cannot think beyond Cato, just laying there, unmoving, not saying anything.

And sure, he wonders for Clove, too, if she knows yet. She'll blame him, Peeta's sure of it. She will grab him by the throat and squeeze Cato from his throat, and then his life, until every scrap of his memory is gone from his lips but still tattooed to the inner walls of mind. He remembers Cato beautiful, and tender even though he wasn't, not ever, until something broke, or he was afraid. He wasn't ready to go. He still had work to do.

The people beside him are in grey uniform and combat boots. He keeps thinking about District 13, and seeing it on propaganda film. That's just the thing, there was nothing of it, and certainly nobody. And yet, these people, in torn and aged uniforms haven't just appeared. It's a scary thought. Peeta wonders how much information any of the Districts are not privy to.

What scares him more is the way they're looking at him, all wide-eyed and hopeful. They don't see what Peeta sees, useless Surplus, cold-footed swine. Then again, why should they? It's an illusion, the idea of Peeta, of a martyr or symbol. Because they don't see he's just a person. To these people, he's many things: brave from fighting, tragic by circumstance, motivated by bitterness, made remarkable by Cinna's hands and by all accounts unforgettable.

He doesn't want to be unforgettable. He doesn't want to forget.

As he gets carried away, Peeta keeps his eyes fixed on the spot Cato was. He can't cry now, but only from the shock, making him feel empty. Not numb. It still hurts, when you still care.

Somebody takes his wrist, the one bleeding liberally. They won't put another component in, and Peeta supposes it's some kind of gesture. Without embedded time, nobody owns him anymore. And maybe six months or so ago, he would have been happy.

Now it feels like betrayal.

He can't feel the pain in his arm. The blood looks false, like it's from somewhere else, or somebody else. The only pain Peeta really feels is elsewhere, somewhere innocent, and a lot harder to get at.

Unbeknownst to him, Cato sleeps.

"What about Clove?" Out of nowhere, Peeta pipes up suddenly. He has felt nothing but pain, and a spike of fear strangles him. He cares a great deal about her, too, he made a promise which he intends to keep, even if they won't let him. "Is she in 13?"

The passenger to Peeta's left shakes his head. "We haven't been able to get her or Cinna out of the Capitol." Then he thinks of Cinna. God, Cinna who was helped at the cost of so much.

"Go back, then." Peeta tries to sound calm. He keeps his voice when he makes the order. Nobody seems to listen to him. They turn away, disappointed, but with who? Peeta and his damn heart, or themselves, their own failures. "Go back for them!"

The passenger turns back to him with this look of utter hopelessness. Peeta plays a trump card.

"You need me." He turns, searching for an open face. "Right?" A few nod, some shuffle a quiet 'yes' out. "I won't go without them," His face starts to feel hot, because he knows what it is to lose, and to lose somebody such a Cato. He won't survive it again. "I already-…" His voice becomes weak. He starts again. "I already lost Cato-"

"You didn't lose him," A skinny boy at the front protests. Maybe it's meant well, but Peeta loses it.

"I know what I saw!" He snaps, eyes red raw from what he hasn't allowed himself. Then, quieter, with his love made afraid, Peeta speaks again. "I felt his pulse. He's gone," It's not closure. But it might be close to a fraction of the acceptance he'll need.

The skinny boy laughs at him. "You can see for yourself when we get there,"

Nobody lying would be that sure.

When Cato finally wakes from a restless, dreamless sleep, he is alone. Not alone, but lonely. He's confused by his own memories, he's afraid of a place he doesn't know. And he's scared. His chest aches from the memories of the girl, and the picture. In this chaos of well-seeming forms, Peeta is the only thing he can cling to. And where's his stability now? Where's Peeta?

With great effort, Cato manages to swing his legs over the mattress, and he takes a few deep breaths. His chest still hurts, with two kinds of pain. One like burning, and that feels closer to the skin. The other is a sharp, enduring pain, much deeper.

"Peeta?" He calls out. His voice is feeble. Cato pushes himself onto his feet, and he's standing. His legs feel cold. He's wearing underwear, and he's sure that's his anyway. And then a gown, probably given to him. It's paper-thin. It only covers his torso.

The tile is cold. He stumbles over, very slowly, to the mirror on the far wall, that stops at his neck and goes down to his shins. Cato figures he must be tall. Taller than Peeta. In all of his memories, those resin-blue eyes are in line with his collar. With hands far too clumsy, he manages to unbutton the back of the gown, and he fells it down, until it falls onto the floor.

Aside from a few scars, shiny with age, he can see two red burn-marks on his skin. Above where his heart would be. It doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel safe.

Terrified, Cato stumbles backwards, and onto a table. He falls back onto it, watching the equipment on it fall and clatter, loudly. His heart is beating in his mouth, choking him. Somebody will come. He doesn't know these people or this place, it's dark and cold, and he wishes for a home he recognises.

"Peeta!" He hurries to the door, tripping but managing to right himself. Furiously he tugs the handle and tears it open. Outside is a darkening hallway. The lights flicker. Patches of mould and damp make grotesque, inhuman shadows that scare him more than loneliness. There are no people, and there's no natural light.

They've forgotten him. They've locked him down here, and he'll freeze, he'll starve. He'll never see Peeta again, the only thing solid in a world of water. Cato sprints down a hallway, until he reaches another door, and pulls on it.

"Help!" And he can't fathom why, but he just keeps o running, as fast as he can, and away, away from that ring and the picture and all of those memories he cannot place. He has the heart rate of a mouse when he finally collides with somebody, glad, and they fall to the floor in a mess of limbs.

Right away, Cato scrambles back, ready for a fight. He looks at the boy, really, a creature of nothing more than seventeen or so, bandaged arms, torn, muddy clothes, and hair bobbled with snow. Something in Cato softens.

"I'm sorry-" He says, and then swallows it comp[lately when the boy looks up. The boy is Peeta. And Peeta screams.

But Peeta's always been brave, he's never been scared for long, and he throws himself over Cato. The ever-living ghost of what once was, and it doesn't matter, Peeta swears it. No-one will love Cato like he will.

Involuntarily, he starts to sob. "I'm sorry," He blubbers, "I'm just so glad," And, so unlike his usual self, Cato moves a hand over the side of his face, this broad, easy touch, and he smiles. His own eyes look dangerously watery.

"Don't cry," He says, in a voice that tries to be colder, but fails. Cato clears his throat and bites against the desire to break down. With a shaky hand, he wipes over Cato's eyes. "You listen to me, Peeta. You're gonna-…" He sucks in a breath, as if the room is void of all air, and sighs. "You're gonna make me go,"

Their kiss tastes like old friends and apologies, the best kind. Peeta tastes of secrets and snow, sharp and almost sweet in the bite of it. Cato takes him all in, the boy that's as ammoniac as lightning and as foul or bitter as love. The word tastes strange, like it's been juxtaposed.

Peeta slaps him hard. His eyes are dangerously shiny.

Out of breath, he collapses, his body slack, against Cato, his body stiff and strong. Their hands find eachother, like star-crossed lovers, and tangle as if trying to savour each moment. It's bittersweet, but the sweets taste sweeter with a bite of the bitter.

Cato strokes a hand through Peeta's blonde hair, tousled with snow. The snow feels stark against his palm, there's nowhere cold but from 12 or 6, and even then, is it winter, a dreadful midwinter? Cato doesn't remember snow, as such, but he remembers skin so white it was snowy, but it was warm and soft to touch, he had never been cold wearing nothing in that winter.

And, fearful, he looks at the strangers behind Peeta, their uniforms unfamiliar. They aren't Peacekeepers, like Cato was once supposed to be, or Capitol police or anything that bears a District symbol he recognizes. But it is a District symbol, branded into the upper arm. It looks vaguely nuclear, maybe they are from 5. Or maybe not.

One of them coughs, and Peeta's eyes fill with tears again. He takes Cato's hands in his own, smaller, colder ones and looks at his face as if he's trying to memorize every detail, but it's futile, Cato has forgotten, and maybe Peeta will, too. It scares him, that his only safety, his last molecule of oxygen in this gas chamber might disappear. He breathes the boy in.

And when Peeta slips back onto his knees, and then to standing, Cato won't let go of his hand. Peeta gives him a terrified look. "I have to go," He swallows through a pin-hole throat and it kills him, a little. Peeta is young. His eyes are watery from seeing things he should have closed them to. Peeta chokes. "But I'm really glad to see you're doing so well,"

Cato lets go, slackjawed, too afraid to speak. He's cold and scared and afraid, he doesn't know where he is, or much of who he is. But Peea loves him. They're supposed to be together, come hell, high water, or an obscure black-and-white picture.

But he can't stand to watch Peeta go, and he clamps back down on Peeta's shirt.

"Don't go," He begs, breathlessly. "Don't you leave me here," And Peeta turns, utterly shocked, completely blindsided by the sudden and rare display of affection. Cato has never been warm before. He's never been kind. What the hell can Peeta do to respond? He turns, frozen, perplexed. "They'll make you forget," Cato cries.

"What would I forget?" Peeta's voice is dangerous and quiet. Cato grits his teeth.

"Don't leave me here, you stupid bastard." He climbs to his feet and pulls Peeta towards him by the shoulders. No longer vulnerable, Peeta can tell by the way Cato stands, he'll fight if he has to, and that's never good. Peeta's tired of fighting. Good men always suffer for it. "You'll forget me,"

Forget Cato? Part of Peeta laughs –ha! Forget Cato? And all of their wars, and all of their loves? He gives himself to Cato, and let it always be known he was who he is.

"Never," Peeta says to him, furious, cold. It makes him ready, all of a sudden. He grasps his Devil by it's Spoke, with a firm grasp, throws creation to his king and breaks it all. He takes his Devil by his Spoke and spins him to the ground. "You remember me, right?"

Cato swallows. "I had a ring. And a sonogram." Peeta blinks at him. "I can't remember why." Peeta grabs Cato's left hand and studies it. His face drains of colour and animation, fear becomes a verb on his face and he pulls away, abhorred.

"That's your wedding ring, Cato." He whispers, and them finally, looks up. "You remember that, don't you?" Cato looks at the floor. He shakes his head. Peeta becomes panicked. "You remember Clove?"

But he doesn't.


	36. Act 8, Scene 3

So Cato is a pretty good shot. But the man is a bullet that's terrified of blood.

Bridge is a game. Water polo is a game. Murder is a crime and you will be sentenced to death for it.

They charge him with over 10 counts of murder, among those being Katniss, which still hurts, and Irving, which was out of kindness. A soldier reads each name aloud to the frightened man, who recalls nothing but Peeta, nothing but Peeta and love love love...

"How do you plead?" The solider is a thin man, pale from the lack of sunlight. He looks like a column of smoke in livery, laughing on the pane of a mirror. Cato says nothing. His face is pale green, sick with grief, and he turns to somebody.

"I don't know." And then, like any man would, we looks for an open face to plead to. "No," His voice is so small and pathetic when he gets out a small "Not guilty,"

They take him. Wearing nothing but a hospital gown and his own skin, they drag him by his arms down to a holding cell, dark, forgotten. At first, Cato had fought them, he had called out for Peeta, because that's all he had, and he was damned if her was going to loose it. And Cato's strong, he's fought before, and it took more than three of them to level the playing field, and then a smart, unpronounceable drug to get him limp and co-operative. Weak, dehumanised, emasculated, they drag him to the cell and lock him there.

Cato lies on the surly concrete floor and tries to move. His arm will not lift, but his fingers twitch, weakly. There's nothing in her,e nothing to reach out for or touch, and he's completely alone. This place is nowhere in his memories, some of which are returning. He starts to remember those names as he repeats them, one in particular being Irving.

And then in the darkness his memories seem to slip into focus. This blonde girl, so pale, and burned, badly, charred and steaming skin red-raw and bloody. The smell of a sunday roast. He feels nauseous as he recalls. They shared a flower. That flower, that Galbanna Lilly, something so beautiful had no business there, was all hers. And the girl looked him dead in the eyes, and asked for her own death.

He had killed her in her sleep. A kindness.

She became scared. Afraid by it all, with her last bit of strength, and Irving managed to ask if it would hurt her. She was already in such pain, it was funny to think she'd worry. God, how young? Seventeen, at a stretch? Looking her death in the face. Cato feels his eyes start to shine.

He'd swallowed. Not a bit, he'd told her. Not a bit, and she smiled. Breathed in the flower and thanked him. Cato has never felt more grateful for thanks in his whole life. In the cold, he feels nothing in his whole body but the tears threatening to expose him, silver as the grass at night.

"Is it meaningless to apologise?" He speaks, aloud, to himself, and knows, somehow, by words spoken to him an eternity ago, that it means the world. Irving's eyes were closed when he laid her on the river bank. And, from one side, she might have been sleeping, dreaming of her father, the tailor, and the beautiful dresses she would have one day worn. Good and sleeping. Safe and sound.

Cato thinks about volunteering, so long ago. He thinks about the teenagers around him, and about being so –Jesus Christ, he can't even fathom how hungry he was to reach out and taste victory but finding instead only...only madness. A small part of him died early with breadcrumbs in his hands.

And Clove, who they mention, and who he can vaguely recall, hysterical, crying to him, is nothing more than a reminder of why he should never try to hug the rain. He would always end up soaking wet, and alone.

He remembers her voice, but only faintly. After all of the fighting, when she came to him, sorry, and said, "Marry me," but what she meant was "Buy me a ring that will turn my finger green so I can imagine our love as a forest and I want to get lost in you, I grew like a windflower the day I-.."

He doesn't remember the rest.

Maybe he'll ask Peeta, who told him, earlier, sadder, that Clove and Cato were like paint on a slick canvas, and it took so much for them to stick but when they did they were a masterpiece. In a world as hard as metal they were soft as nostalgia.

He doesn't remember the rest. He disappears into his words.

Peeta wakes. They've given him a nice compartment, close to the ground, a small flap of a window letting in rare, precious sunlight. The paint is curling like lemon peel, as if somehow nervous. He can't comprehend this place, all of these secret people, entombed in their Pharaoh's grave, running out of oxygen to soon become a glorious feast for a God that will never be hungry.

He's alone. Tired, too. His wrist is tender. The moments pass, free, no longer owned by somebody else. And Peeta can't stand it. It feels wasteful. Unindustrious, even. He climbs out of bed and pulls on clothes. Down on the sixth floor, they have a medical station, largely empty, with long, winding corridors. With Cato. Peeta smiles at the thought. Saddest face anyone's ever seen.

They show him a canteen, where the miserable souls of 13, the hidden District, line up to collect their breakfasts, and have schedules printed on their arms. Peeta reads other people's in the line as they print his own, trying to get a feel of normalcy. He can't go back to 12 yet. He's not sure he wants to. One day, he'll return to 2, and play the piano, sleep in the pantry and dream of better things.

Someday is perhaps the cruellest of words.

He gets breakfast and recreation and lots of imperious-sounding meetings. Peeta gets a sentencing hearing. Who's on trial?

Confused, Peeta consults a sentry by the door, tray of sorry food in hands. The guard recognises him immediately, and straightens. Peeta hates it.

"My schedule," He begins, in a quiet voice. The guard begins to ramble.

"Yessir, everybody is given one at the start of the day. The week commencing, you can begin to tailor yours to suit you better," Peeta waves a hand, a little worried. Something feels duplicitous, and he intends to discover what.

"I''m supposed to go to a sentencing hearing." He says, softly. The sentry nods. "Who's trial is it?"

The sentry falls silent.

Peeta prompts him. He becomes quickly indignant. "I have a right to k-"

"Cato Almasy, sir,"

Peeta's heart is caught in his mouth. He is undone. Peeta staggers backwards and places the tray behind him. Quickly, things seem to slow to an underwater pace and he speaks again, distanced, strange. Morgue to love. "What was his crime?"

"Multiple counts of murder, assault, conspiracy to commit murder, accessory after the fact." The guard looks away. "The first of many trials, sir,"

"Forget the trials," Peeta says, sharply. "What about Clove?" Because they are yet to rescue her, and Cinna, and bring them here, or somewhere safe. Memories do not equate necessity, and Peeta really believes it's a question of needs and not rosary beads, anyway. The sentry nods.

"She and the others will be charged accordingly, when they are in our custody."

Peeta feels himself grow hot with rage. "But she's done nothing wrong!" His rage turns to sorrow and he thinks he's failed them both. Oh, God. Crucified Christ, what has he done? The guard coughs.

"Any willing participant or affiliate of the Hunger Games is an enemy of the rebellion,"

Peeta will not stand what he's hearing. He draws himself to full height and spits into his palm, rubbing the ink of the schedule away. Furious, he leans forward on his toes and gets eye-to-eye with the sentry. Dangerously, he speaks.

"Hang your damn rebellion," And Peeta leaves, taking his words and a solitary pasty from his breakfast tray.

Down in his cell, Cato sleeps. He's woken by shouts outside, anger and disagreement, and then finally footsteps, ringing closer. Finally able to move, he holes himself up in the corner and tries to look unimportant. His hands and feet are bound anyway. Eyes place themselves on his body and give a new dimension to the phrase eye contact.

"Hey, Cato," It's Peeta. Shambling, slowly, Cato manages up and towards the barred window in his door. Sure enough, there's Peeta, long and lovely, like in Cato's memory. But Cato is cold.

"You never came," He declares, heatedly. The tension in his throat restricts his voice, makes him hoarse. "I screamed for you, all night. I screamed, and you never came for me,"

Peeta drops his face against the cool metal bars and shuts his eyes. Shake is head like he doesn't want to believe this world, wants to wake up in 12 to the Bakery, to before even being a Surplus, because ignorance really was bliss. "I didn't know," he murmurs. "I'm sorry," Over and over in this faint voice, he apologises. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm..."

Cato crawls forward, and faintly brushes Peeta's hand. "Don't you dare leave me,"

Peeta's eyes are blazing with passion when he nods. "Never," And them, quieter. "I'm going to get you out." Through the bars, he passes the small, lonesome scrap of food. Cato rejects it at first, out of what? Pride? Modesty? Peeta becomes annoyed. "You need to stay alive," And, finally, stubborn as he is, and charming, too, Cato takes a bite. With food between his teeth he flashes Peeta a heartless smile.

"Satisfied, darling?" Peeta nods. And then, in a moment of rare weakness, Cato looks guilty. "Who did I kill, Peeta?"

"You're not a murderer,"

Still bound, Cato shoots his hands forward and grabs Peeta by the throat. "I don't even remember it, but I killed them all, didn't I?" No answer. Peeta's eyes are on the floor. "Didn't I?!" The boy splutters.

"You had to!" He cries. Cato becomes furious.

"I deserve this, don't I?!" He starts to become uneasy. "I deserve it for what I did to them," His eyes are shiny when he looks up. "You should go,"

Very slowly, Peeta swallows and pulls back. In his whole life, he has never killed anybody, friend or otherwise. He can't pretend to know that ache, like rot. And he can't pretend he sees the ghosts, and hears their screams in bed, in the kitchen, alone in the night. So he swallows and dips is head.

"I hear her, too, sometimes." His voice is but a whisper, but Peeta's presence echoes like sin in a room full of God and Cato can always hear him coming. "Irving," The girl's ghost watches them , her eyes still blue and green, still open to things she should not see. They resign themselves to the memory. And God, Peeta isn't the type, he shouldn't have seen, he should never have seen. A strange, enduring pain ceases Cato's heart and he touches Peeta's face, briefly.

"Me, too." Cato's voice is unsteady as well, but he covers it with the coat of anger, that he wears, that he think will keep him warm if he wears nothing else in this snow. "Hey," Something trembles within him. "Hey, it's just a trick,"

Voices out in the hall tear them apart. Peeta brightens, faintly, as if he finally got something to say that isn't so heavy. Jesus, it's like the boy carries all of these problems on his back, but he's too small, he'll get crushed if he doesn't learn fast. He swallows.

"I'm not going to let them hurt you," And he turns to go.

"Peeta-" Pained, Cato gets out. He pulls himself to standing and looks very serious. The boy stops. "I killed them for her, didn't I?"

Peeta is winded by the thought. He nods. Here Cato is just a pawn, and they keep him moving forward, with promises of royalty if he reaches the other side, but most likely getting slaughtered on the way there. No, Peeta thinks there's nobility to it, that pawns keep the kings in their places, that they're always making progress.

Cato thinks that the only reason pawns can't move backwards is that if they could, they would kill their own kings in a heartbeat.

A nod. "I must have loved her incredibly hard."

He cannot bear the weight of the words. His mouth is dry and ashen when he speaks. "You did."

But Clove is not his enemy. And neither is Cato.

Their minds are already made up by the time Peeta interrupts, so pale he's spectral, so damn terrified that he's too late. He's got nothing to bargain with, here Peeta's not clever, or really useful, but they do need him. He stands at the side of a long table and swallows.

"Let him go," His voice is wounded by dawn.

An older woman at the head of the table, the president, offers Peeta a seat, but he declines. "The people deserve justice,"

He holds out his wrists. "Then kill me! Take me instead!" Breathless with indignation, he swallows hard and thinks of Cinna. The piano is not firewood, and he was right, Peeta's clever, he could sway a crowd with a few words. "I participated,"

From the other side of the table, Haymitch interjects. The audience seems disgruntled. "That's a neat way to get yourself killed, kid," His voice is an iron command when he speaks. "Sit down,"

Peeta remains standing. He's tense and motionless when he speaks. Again. "You hurt him, or Clove, and you get nothing from me,"

The President sighs. "I'm sure we can agree on the terms of his sentence, but I'm afraid Miss Almasy is quite Inaccessible at the moment-"

"You know where she is!" Peeta is not usually so angry, he's peaceful, cheerful, pensive. He would never raise his voice to speak unless it were a matter of life and death, and it is, he will not break his promise, and he will live honest or die trying. "You can't just leave her-"

"Anybody we send would be dead as soon as they reached the Capitol,"

Peeta turns to the resident and says with utter conviction, "Send Cato,"

The room goes silent and stiff as Sunday manners.

"That way, even if he dies," Something breaks in his voice and quivers to something smaller, somehow less important, less vital. "If he dies, he's carried out his sentence, and if he doesn't…" the room swallows with him. The President smiles, as honest as a politician's discourse.

"You say the word," she hedges, "And I'll have him sent. Under 1 condition," She holds up a nasty finger. "You participate in our rebellion. You represent us,"

And it's not like Peeta wants it, he just wants the smell of flowers and a big house back in 2, empty for souls and a piano. And he wants Cato to himself, yet, he knows that it doesn't work or belong, it isn't right. He has a choice, here, and he could say not, dissent, refrain.

But instead, when he goes to speak, what comes out is a strangled 'Yes'.

After an hour, they crack open Cato's cell and pull him out, shout at him, give him vague orders. He doesn't fight them, not when they throw him into a stream of cold water, with nothing but his skin to cover his heart. He won't say anything. He won't let them win. Ghosts watch the entire time, spectral spectators, admiring rather than participating in it all.

He turns to one, a tall boy a smile and a spear. There's an arrow buried in his neck: he never thinks to take it out. Cato turns to him, shivering, nose like a fox, his skin like a chicken, and swallows.

"I'm so sorry," he says, quietly. The boy nods.

"I know you are,"

Afterwards, they blindfold him, and cuff him, and take him up stairs and around corners. He thinks this place must be some kind of labyrinth. At one point he feels no contact on his arms and he calls out, suddenly terrified. "No," He panics, "No, don't leave me-" But they hadn't. And then, he gets thrown into a room, stripped of his blindfold, dressed in black and told to wait. The boy with the arrow in his neck leans by the door. He's engrossed by the other ghosts, the disfigured blonde in particular.

And Cato is so caught up in the microcosm that the door startles him, he readies himself to fight. But it's just Peeta.

"I have two minutes," The boy says, and he wraps himself around Cato. "I had to do something," His voice is weak. "I couldn't leave you to die,"

Cato is stiff and motionless, he doesn't invite or decline contact, he just remains frozen. "You shouldn't have done that," he says, slowly. "I don't deserve mercy," The boy pulls back, and looks him fiercely in the eyes.

"This isn't a mercy. If you get caught, you'll wish they killed you," So Peeta raises a finger and addresses Cato sternly. "Don't you dare get reckless, because people care about you,"

Cato swallows, but his bitterness claws it's way back up his throat. "Don't lecture me, sweetheart, I don't even get to decide how I die,"

It makes Peeta angry. "And you should be so lucky!" He crosses his arms. "You get back here alive or so help me God, I'll-…" Cato laughs at him, genuine, not hurtful, but amused.

"What'd you do, kill me?" And Peeta laughs, because it's the only thing keeping him from bursting into tears. He nods, and places a hand on his shoulder. "No matter what happens with Clove, I don't want to lose you as my friend,"

Cato crouches slightly, so that they're eye-to-eye, and he says, without a shadow of a joke, "I will never be your friend. Never. I promise," And they take him.

Later, somewhere else, a promise has been broken. In truth, it had been broken long before, but it's only now that Clove's reviewing, that she's looking at these things as minor offences adding to the charge against the slaughter'd youth: Cato Almasy.

He promised to be faithful. Repeated the words when they were married. Clove wonders if she's a fool to love or believe, but even then, she'd rather be a fool than a cynic. She was happy that day, because they'd made it. Just once, she smiled because there he was, her nihilist, her happy man, her manic.

So, he broke that promise. And he wasn't hers, either. He wasn't hers until he died, but rather Peeta's, and Clove knows the irony in her jealousy, but she cannot help it. Her heart aches. However futile, her thought will never be that Cato is dead. He can't have gone, he can't, he can't…

This will always be a night Clove remembers that, for whatever reason, she cannot bring herself to touch her daughter, even though she has never had a problem with touch in her life.

Her heart hurts, like the mercilessness of a drawn-out death. All that time she had told herself that she didn't need him, not at all. But something in the cadence above her ribcage, beating the shit out of her insides to remind her where something should be, and she can't taw it. Maybe her heart is ailing, making for useless for that same cold, cold boy but he was like whiskey that burnt her lips and kept her insides cosy and warm, she was indulgent before, and now? Sober is just another word for thirsty.

She lies on her back in the darkness of the rom. It's been a day, or so, but time escapes her, and she still feels fatigued and tired. Sometimes staff come in and out, they have learnt that she'll not touch her daughter or even speak to them about Cato, not a word Because nobody wants to hear about how he was a loving husband, they just want to watch his car-crash of a death, how could she not see this coming, they'd ask her. And she has no answer to give, so she doesn't say anything.

The door creaks open, and a figure passes through. Clove remains wary, she doesn't trust them, and it seems too late, too quiet. Kara isn't crying, there's no need for anybody in here. The shadow pauses, tall, obscured, in the door and then walks along towards the cot, and Clove has started to obsess over her childhood memories, over Cato, so small. Did she hold his hands too tightly? When his parents fought, did he mistake it for lovemaking?

The shadow pauses by the cot and reaches in. And it gives her incentive to move. Slowly, and quietly, she picks up the butterknife from the table besides her, and drops, flat-footed onto the floor. Clove makes not a sound as he goes for the stranger scared for her child's life, and her own, she knows how to kill. It was the sound of knives hitting the targets, back in 2m, it seduced her, sounded too much like her own pulse.

So she slinks around the side of the bed, and freezes when the shadow takes a sharp breath in, adjusting the blade to look menacing.

The white-hot crack from the doorway spills enough light to see Kara's eyes, blue like Mercy, like Cato's. She cannot stand it any longer.

In a second, she arches up and throws her arms up, around the shadow's neck, and poises the blade by his jugular. Stubble indicates it's a man. He freezes, right away, and holds the child, still, out in front of him.

"Put her down," Clove warns him. "Put her down or so help me God, I'll heave your corpse through the goddamn widow," The shadow is obedient. He sets her down, awkwardly, avoiding the sharp enough blade. And really, Clove is terrified, her body is weak and this man could overpower her easily, but he doesn't.

"Good," she says, slowly, trying to sound masterful. "Turn on the light,"

The shadow tenses. "I don't-"

Clove poises the weapon again, moving it closer to the skin. "Turn it on." He holds his hands up in defeat. He moves forward for the switch, and the second he's away, Clove grabs Kara, and lifts her. She's scared, and useless, but there's nothing else she can lose.

The shadow pauses by the light. He sighs, as if contemplating dissent. "Well? Did I stutter?" His hand goes, and the room illuminates. All at once, Kara starts to cry, and Clove blinks, blinded. Her legs give out first and she ends up sprawled on her knees, body shaking ,pulse running, child crying. Because she must be wrong. Her eyes are going in and out of focus when she speaks.

"That's impossibl-…imposs…impossi-…." She can't even say it.


	37. Act 8, Scene 4

Clove remembers her first memory of Cato. She caught him once, killing a squirrel outside of the training center with a rock: his eight year-old-body was shaking, eyes illuminated through tears, he told her that he _loved _it.

She had assumed he meant the squirrel.

And she remembers their first kiss, after their first reaping. Her name was called, from the group of volunteers and Cato had kissed her when they were alone, not out of anything but compassion. Their first fuck had been on the train, and Clove remembers that in detail.

She does not remember ever feeling _this_.

In a sudden state of tears, of hysteria, her vision is blurred but she sees his shins, and then slowly, she looks up, and tries to take in the rest of him. Cato appears to her, strong and present, and she can smell him, like the violet of her perfume and tulips. Not like the faded apparitions and ghosts, stronger, there, and Clove knows, somehow, someway, that if she reached out for him she would find warm skin and pulse, not madness.

Her chest is tight, her hands are shaking. All the while Cato remains still, tense and motionless. What does she expect? Cato has never made a pretense of sensitivity, he always tries to staunch the bleeding with a blade. She manages to wrestle control of her breathing away from her emotions at last, and she stands slowly.

"I watched you die," Is the first thing she says. Clove adjusts the baby in her arms. "I heard the cannon-..." she sniffs, and looks up finally, at long last into oceans she has memorized. It's enough to make her lose it again, almost. But for the sake of her own pride, she keeps herself from crying, from letting him win. "I thought you had left me here, Cato, I thought-..."

He jams his fists into his pockets and looks at the ground before at Clove. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding odd and a little insincere.

"If the sentries here see you, they'll kill you," Her voice is very quiet. She tries to play it distant, the plan had always been hard to get, she wasn't going out to sea for just any man, and can you really see Clove as an easy catch? No, she's supposed to be okay, but her needs overwhelm her desires and she kisses him hard ion the mouth. He tastes like the ammoniac of lightning and the cold of inertia. Not of flowers. Never of flowers.

And it feels so good, her pulse is running miles and her blood is singing in sorrowful gladness, he came back for here, he came back, he came! The pleasure is so good and nearly forgotten that Clove wants to tell Cato everything with her tongue, with the passing of air between their lungs, but her eulogy is cut short.

He pushes her back with his palm on her heart and wipes is mouth. "I'm sorry," He says again, but his eyes are empty, they cannot betray his heart if they have nothing in. He's not finished, but Clove interrupts.

"I don't care," She says, breathless with joy, soaring on gilded wings, not noticing the shadow that block the sunlight. She spares a look at Kara, and then to Cato. "I don't care, because you're here now, and we can leave-"

"Clove-" Cato says, edgily. She doesn't listen.

"We can live secluded, like you wanted, and I'll-" Her throat is tight and she's a train-wreck when speaking, A stuttering soliloquy, a broken symphony. Right now Clove is ashamed that she's not how Cato would want her, leaking self-esteem like a rust faucet, the drips louder than sin in a room full of God and Cato can barely hear her. "I'll play the piano-..."

"Clove, listen to me," He begs her, no longer sorry to see her, but hostile. "I don't know-"

Her voice is pinched and hysterical. She raises a hand to caress him. "That doesn't matter no-"

Cato grabs her by the jaw with a superhuman inhumanity, and locks eyes with her. "Interrupt me again, and I'll strangle you," Her whole body starts to tremor. Silver trails of tears cut down her face and Cato can feel them hot on his knuckles like blood. The only things in the dim light that are really visible, that shine to him are her tears, and these enormous blue eyes balanced on her shoulder, the ones Cato sees in the mirror.

"I don't know who you are," He says, hard and unemotional. Clove makes a noise as if to speak, but he squeezes harder, scaring her into silence. "I don't know a thing about you but your name. You understand me?" Clove swallows, and her lack of response makes Cato impatient. He shakes her, roughly. "Understand?"

She nods, sobbing so silently it seems impossible. Her eyes fall to floor. He's grateful for the mercy, and he lets her go, so suddenly that she staggers backwards, nearly losing balance. The child with his eyes starts to cry.

Cato goes over to the room of the door and locks it, quickly. He doesn't look back at her when he says, "Shut it up,"

His threat still hot on the side of her face, Clove tries to comply, but all she can think of is Cato, or at least, the one she remembers. Old friends. Her heart aches, but most of all she feels empty. She cannot really feel anything, because she's waiting for him to turn around and laugh, for him to kiss her and wrap his arms around her and let her on in this big joke. And she'd laugh, because maybe Clove doesn't get the joke, but she needs the laugh.

She can feel the tears on her own face, and see them on her daughter's, oh Christ, her daughter, the one with his eyes, that stare at her, shiny with fear, or some less recognisable horror. Outside, it might be raining, unusual for summer, by there's this faint tapping, and she wants to be let in, too, she wants to let the rain in and have it wash away everything. At last, Kara falls back into a sleepy silence, and Clove heaves a sigh that sounds like 'I love you, tormented'.

And when everything is quiet, he goes over to the window, Clove watches the curve of his spine as he looks out at the darkness below, lights flickering like holes in the curtain of heaven, or stars, drowning. He looks sad when he turns his head halfway towards her. His eyes are full of suspicion.

"That ring," He says, quietly. "I have one like it."

Clove feels in a trance when she speaks. "You gave it to me. You married me," He turns back to the window and nods, as if considering, before he turns around and stretches out his palm. At first, she thinks he will hit her, but instead, he looks at her.

"This is a kindness," He says, coldly, and Clove steps backwards, she shakes her head.

"No, it's not," She whimpers, terrified and somehow furious. "Please-" He doesn't hesitate in grabbing her wrist and pulling the small ring off. It weighs nothing, not physically. Emotionally, it crushes them both.

Clove will remember it as the night that even though Cato had never had a problem with looking, or liking, he couldn't quite meet her gaze.

In the middle of the night, Peeta wakes. His eyes are molten with fatigue as he lifts his head, hearing the rain tap against his small window. This place is so dark, and the air seems to be thin. He's alone, and he's scared, because in his dreams Cato was dead and buried, because Peeta had been laying shoulder-to-shoulder with him in a grave, but then they starts to pile earth on,t hat got in his ears and mouth and eyes, and when he finally reaches for Cato's hand, it was cold, and stiff with rigour mortis.

His eyes were still open.

The rain will wash away everything, if you let it, so Peeta rocks onto his knees, hearing joints click as he rises to standing on the bed. Cautious, he pushes on the cold glass and it gives, stiff, but enough. Now, he presses both of his palms to the glass and lifts it up enough that the gap is open. Peeta makes no fantasies about escaping. Instead, he lifts himself onto the sill and leans half-out of the window. The rain is cold and acidic but it feels so good, coming in fast and heavy. His hair is soaked in seconds, dripping onto his face. Out of the corner of his mouth, his tongue darts out to taste some, and it's good.

He's so focused on the rain that he doesn't hear his compartment door open.

Peeta slips inside and the small window flaps shut. His face is cold and white when he speaks. A rivulet of rainwater trails down his spine and makes him shiver. There's a sentry in his doorway, and they wear black. Against his optimism, Peeta assumes, God, he nearly breaks down when he thinks about Cato, helpless, lifeless, like on those plains.

He stands, at odd with himself. "Oh, God," he whispers. A hand flies to his mouth. "What happened?"

The sentry gives him an unsure smile. And down the darkening stairs they go.

Peeta doesn't ever ask, but he wishes for an answer. He doesn't like surprises, he never has done. The surprise of being reaped of being picked by Clove, which was at first horrible. The surprise of his father sitting him down one day and explaining, calmly, distantly, that Peeta would be going away, and he probably wouldn't be coming back. Even now, just to see Cato would be this mix of guilt and happiness.

Why must it always be a mixture?

Being here, Peeta's been told that you get used to it. Your eyes form their own single-celled lenses and your nose closes up to the chemical sprays, and your hands? They will grow their own gloves, invisible, indestructible, tough. Peeta's been here a few days now, that's it, and he thought he was made of tougher things. Maybe surplusing, and falling in love somehow gave him delusions of grandeur, about being more than he really is, when he's nothing. So Peeta sucks it up. Lasts for as long as he can.

They reach the door outside of medical and he loses it. Cato's strong, he is, even in his soul, and he can brave most things. _Everything but the last thing is survivable. What if this Is it?_

If Cato's not through that door, with his slightly crooked smile, Peeta doesn't want to open it. He refuses to see the world without Cato in it, to give his eyes colour. With Peeta's heart in his mouth, tasting too sweet to be palatable, he manages to push on the door, eyes closed, breath short but present. His face is flushed but still white like grief, and he hears the rain like a talisman, a good-luck charm. He needs it.

Cato's laughter bleeds across the room. When his eyes open, Clove smiles. Saddest face he's ever seen.

Peeta wasn't ever told about this kind of want.

He knows all about romance, about love and kissing and falling for somebody emotionally. That's all fine. But what happens when he wants more than just hand-holding? What happens if he wants all of Cato, and not this abstract idea of virtue?

Cato knows.

It's what wakes Peeta late into the night. He laying on his front, drained of everything, finally asleep. Thesedays he's been so scared of his alarm clock he can't even shut his eyes. After nearly losing Cato,after the agony of waiting, he needs rest. Peeta knows what he needs exactly, he's less sure of what he wants. And he gets woken from his dreamless sleep by a kiss.

It's long and drawn-out and it's love is so incredibly true that Peeta can tell already that Cato will not save him, Cato will leave him so fuckin broken there will be body bags under his eyes from night to come. The kiss is deep and passionate and something new entirely, Peeta's eyes snap open and he reaches out for Cato, fixes his arms around his neck and feels safe, for once, safe and sound.

Cato breaks for air. He laughs. "You seem surprised to see me," He laughs. Peeta allows himself the pleasure of a smile, of this company.

"You're not usually in my bed," He breathes, reaching out a hand to confirm that Cato is here and real and so intimate. Then there's Cato, struggling to believe that his only constant in a world of water, Peeta, is allowing this, wanting him here. "I thought you were gone," He says, quietly.

Cato smirks, thinking he's something fierce, thinking he's ten times smarter. "Not a chance," And he leans so that he's above Peeta. The boy smells like Galbanna Lilies and the glow of an anarchist's heart, the one that Cato plays with even though it's molten and his fingers are burning. They kiss again, Peeta trembling, not with fear or cold, but with something darker, a vice that Cato knows well, a virtue that suits him. "What do you need?" he whispers, dropping his lips to Peeta's neck.

The boy grabs a fistful of the sheets and gasps, mewling. "_I-I don't know,_" Even now, he doesn't seem to have tit in him to be selfish, just for once, to allow himself to feel good, really good. His small body stiffens, pink lips part because Cato is clever and ruthless.

"Do you trust me?" He asks, taken in by Peeta's rapturous beauty, looking like this, face hot with blush and lips red and hair mussed. Not how Cato remembers him, because Peeta's nobody's easy catch, can you really see him anything but lovely?

Peeta laughs. "Not a bit,"he assures Cato, and Cato laughs back.

"Liar," He remarks, and leans back, pulling off his shirt, and helping Peeta, who's skinnier and paler and so beautiful, ever bit lie Cato has imagined, pale blonde hair that dusts him arms, and legs, and goes down his navel. Peeta looks confused, hut his eyes burn cold with want and Cato is only human, he doesn't know when he'll get the chance to dig his teeth into that soft underbelly again so he stares Peeta in the eyes as he places a hand on Peeta's waistband. "Are you sure?" Is all he can say. His own desire is eminent.

Peeta's eye flutter, and God, that isn't fair. Cato wants to bite the soft skin on his neck and take him here, during the rain, so that the drips will sound like fireworks and the lights like stars. "I think so," his eyes say _I love you_, and Cato smiles, faintly, before he dips his head.

Peeta's noise as Cato takes him in his mouth is depraved and filthy. Truth is, Cato hasn't ever done this before, but he knows what he'd like, and that's his only guidance. What guidance, too. It isn't long before Peeta's pupils are blown and he's feral, wriggling like a live wire. Even the smallest of Cato's movements proves too much, and Peeta kicks his legs up, digging his feet hard into Cato's shoulders and pounding him on the back.

"Cato-" Peeta's voice is pinched, and he's stopped thrashing, taught as a bowstring and staring down at Cato, his shock of blonde in the darkness, his bright blue eyes that smile with the darkest sorts of pleasure. With one hand, Cato steadies himself and with the other, he brings himself to finishing, skin burning with sweat, pulse shaking the floorboards and Peeta's cries shoving him further and further into starry skies.

"God," Peeta chokes, his face beet red, mouth unable to close, jaw clenched. "Oh _Jesus, Cato_-" He goes all at once, quivering, back arched, toes curled, hands curled into fists, with this strangled cry. Cato is completely caught up inn Peeta, hes never seen anything so sensual in his entire life, and Peeta's face is bright red, even still, his breath is raspy when his head hits his pillow and his eyes close and he sucks in air desperately.

Cato's following him, narrowly, quiet but then pushed to groans because he cannot even remember the last time he felt so alive, and so good, he can't remember the last Peeta looked so absolutely wrecked and perfect. He knows he's going, God, he keeps his eyes on Peeta and screws his eyes shut.

"That's-" His sounds are obscene. He's gone by the time his eyes snap open. But he can't see Peeta. Stunned, and alarmed, he searches in the dim light. His body swill not move. He feels absolutely paralyzed, and what's worse is that he can hear things that are not there, he can hear his own voice even though he's silent.

"I'll do it quick, if I have to." He says, in a softer voice. And the girl, Clove, it looks like, adjusts against his body and gritts her teeth and gasps, trying to quiet herself. She nods, and her toes are already curling.

"Through the heart." She says, and her eyes roll back, he body tightens, she cries out...

He smells blood when his eyes open. Something warm, a drip, catches the side of his cheek and he brushes a hand against it, only to find it clear. Peeta is knelt above him, hands on shoulders, crying. There's a not trail of blood above Cato's lips. He sits up, slowly, his muscles still stiff as martyr's manners, and wipes the thick crimson from under his nose. The boy is still in shock.

Cato lets himself lay limp on the mattress before he turns on Peeta. In a soft voice, he asks, "What happened?"

Peeta's trembling. "You were sick." he sniffs. "And-...and bleeding, and your whole body started to shake," He's so afraid, so damn afraid that his love is made small. The once he lets himself be selfish, just that once, and now he's afraid again.

Cato hooks an arm around Peeta and pulls him close. "Hey, I'm fine." he promises, voice calm. It's not strictly true: he's broken out into a cold sweat and his nose is still bleeding. His arms ache from the sudden seizing of the muscles. But most of all, he can hear her murmurs, he recalls, on that occasion the way it felt between her cries, and the words they shared, stiff but unafraid. "I just-..." He sighs. There are no words he can use.

"You what?" Peeta puts a hand on his heart. "Did I do that?"

Cato sits up, slowly, painfully, and Peeta lets him, eventually. "You didn't do anything, Peeta," he lets out a sigh. "I just... remembered something."

Peeta's face goes white. he knows, realistically, that while Cato's love for him is sweet and romantic, eh really is meant for clove, it's something deeper and more sexual, more physical, a whole lot harder to forget or destroy, even if Peeta could. He would never, though. his own love will be torn apart at the hands of a child, the one with Cato's eyes. "Remembered what?" He gets out, vaguely.

Cato leans down and grabs a fistful of his clothes. "I just gotta be somewhere," He dresses in haste and reaches at last into his pocket, pulling out something small, and something so heavy it nearly breaks his hand. Peeta catches it with his eyes, and hen drops them to the floor, as if he doesn't feel worthy of it. Cato takes his hand and places the small gold ring inside of it, closes his fingers around it.

Peeta thinks he'll cry when he speak, "Thankyou," he whispers.

And Cato nods. "Don't wait up for me," He smiles: saddest face Peeta's ever seen.


	38. Act 9, Scene 1

Clove hears the rain. It leaves her paralyzed.

There's no natural light: she knows better than to be afraid of the dark. Or of anything, she's so sure she's losing her mind.

Clove gets two minutes of cold water to wash under. The soap is not scented and she takes so long adjusting to the cold that once she manages any lather, the faucet shuts off. The lights flicker and fail. The silence is not absolute, but quiet enough that she feels her ears become heavy. There's no piano here, it burns in some other corner of this place, brighter than Peeta's skin or the lights in his eyes, left on by an Angel.

Her chest heaves: she wants, she wants–...

her hands feel bare, she has been stolen from, God, she has been stolen from that which she tried to save. Cato doesn't now, how could she tell him? How could she look at him with her skin like a lightning rod for a host of sins, and expect him to look back? Her intentions are good, but they fall short of sound.

She loved him first. She loved him when he first came to her, he told her that she was weak and unimportant and he called her 'sweetheart'...it made her so hateful that she fell in love, just a bit. They used to break things, and nobody would care, nobody thought to mention them even once, and it had been okay. He was her sweetest downfall.

She thinks she's dreaming when he appears in her door.

"I'll do it quick if I have to," He says, simply. His voice is hard and unsympathetic, but she clings to that very faint flicker, the one in his lungs that says 'old friends'. The wheels in her heart start to spin like Christ turning over in his grave.

"Through the heart," her voice is diminished. "You said-" Her speech is halted by his eyes.

"Don't," Cato steps into the light, he looks young, and he smells like the last thing he was really good at. It's as if he has come to take her on a waltz of hypocrisy, she will not go. "That's everything I know," The silence twitches like fire. It wounds her, physically, it bleeds her of everything to turn away, to meet fire with fire.

"Then leave," her lungs are like violin strings, tragic symphonies are born on her breath but stifled by her lips, she bites them to keep everything from spilling out. "I'm done with you," They both know Cove is powerless here, but she uses her words like knives, and as much as he has forgotten, Cato can tell that she never misses.

She turns to go, and Cato panics. There's something more to it, she's the poison-ivy wrapped around his ribs, he can't cut her away without cutting himself up, it's a civil war. So he strives for civility when he speaks. "When did you say that?" She lends him nothing, so he staggers a few steps forward. "I want to remember,"

Her blood turns to fire, and then ice. She can't bear to meet his gaze, or his good intent. "Will you help me?"

Immediately, her face grows hot. "I'm not qualified to give you the help you need," Clove hisses, face ugly when she turns on him, she wants to tear out his purple heart and –and breathe memories back into it, her anger falls fast into dismay. Does he still want her?

Cato grabs her by the shoulders, turns her until they're facing. He doesn't look a thing like he used to, not up close, but his features are identical. Even his voice is somehow different when he speaks. "You answer me, girl,"

Clove's first reaction is panic. Her chemistry still shouts 'career' and she clouts him under the jaw, freeing herself but for a second. Cato folds, staggering back a step before his face grows furious, and he goes for her. She starts to scream, cut off when he strikes her back, without mercy, so hard that she goes down. And struggles to get up. Cato's helpful, sure, he drags her up her her hair and takes her face roughly in his other hand.

His voice is so quiet when he speaks. "I don't want-"

The crying of a child takes all of the anger out of his eyes, his vice-like grip slackens and he looks suddenly ashamed. He remembers something else, but not of her, of his mother, a cardboard-faces woman with a bun of grey elastic, she said to him 'poor people don't love, they got shit to do' and yet here he is, good Lord, here he is. Falling weak on hearing a sound that seduces his heart.

"What did you call her?" He asks, before he can can help it. Cato hadn't known until a sentry told him, that the blonde thing with ailing eyes was his, Cato hasn't a word to his name but Peeta, and now _this_. Clove is still reeling from the blow. She guesses that getting the wind kicked out of her is the only way to remind her lungs of how nice the taste of air is.

"Kara," She says, quietly. It's difficult to hear over the sobs, Cato can hear the anxiety in that, anxiety if worst all of all the hidden sufferings. It lacks the control of eating disorders, the fun of procrastinators, the epiphanies of the insomniacs and replaces it with this overwhelming desire to live, even though anxiety sometimes means being afraid of everything.

"Would you-" His words tastes like ash. Clove's lips are red with blood, she nods anyway, and rises shakily. She looks at Cato like she's pulling the petals from flowers: _Darling, I love you, I love you still._

When searching for the lost, there are things to remember. Cato takes one look at the girl with big eyes, and small hands, and he forgets everything. His throat grows tighter than cupid's chokehold, and he is undone when he chokes, quiet. He cannot grasp the word because right now he wants to be stronger in a way that isn't about physical dominance-_daughter_-he wants to be weak sometimes-_daughter_-he wants to cry when he feels like crying and not have that cost him. Peeta is a worrier, and Cato is a warrior, and there are question-marks like light-bulbs illuminating over this child. She cries. He nearly goes, with her.

Instead, Cato doesn't say a thing. He keeps quiet as a bullet wound in an innocent man's back. Clove hands him this mystery and he notices her own tears, silent, but somehow they speak dangerous volumes.

Cato doesn't know what to do with his arms or his hands, but he manages something eventually, Kara's head on his shoulder, her sobs dwindling to whimpers, home isn't a place, it's a feeling and even if he doesn't remember, she does. His eyes shut, for a second. "She's mine?" He won't look Clove in the eyes, but that doesn't matter. She nods. "She's beautiful," He says.

"I know," Clove's voice is still strong, despite her crying.

"And she's so small." He marvels, the remark neutral but somehow wounding. But the pain reminds Clove that they're all alive, and okay. That there's still something they have yet to take from her. Early requires an explanation, and Clove isn't ready to face up to it yet. "is she supposed to be like that?" He finally looks up, his gaze too intrusive.

It pains Clove to say it. "Early," She says. "She was early,"

"But that's-"

"We're okay, that's what matters,"

And they fall into a silence because what can Cato say to Clove that she won't already have heard. For all he knows, they have had this conversation a thousand times, and every time she's left looking like that, pale and triangular in the light: incomplete. He takes a long look at Kara, and then back up at Clove, their eyes making contact like a slap. Her eyes are full of muted thunder.

"I had a dream, last night," Cato begins, trying to recall. He knows better than to lie, even if he knows little. It doesn't pull her in until he enumerates. "you were there," And Clove looks up. Her voice is empty of emotion, and all that she does feel she tries desperately to nullify. She keeps quiet as a bullet wound in an innocent man's back.

"We were in Egypt. Ancient Egypt," she cares not for history. Cato is stumbling over his words like the hurdles are that quarter-inch too high. "And you were the Pharoah's daughter, and I was his slave-..." He swallows, hard, voice low so as not to wake the child, but trembling like a violin string. She breathes out tightly. Still the heart of a child. "Loving you lead to my death -they claimed that I seduced you-"

"I know this story," Clove says, distantly.

"And then I was a mason," Cato looks at her for reassurance.

"That you were," She breathes, unable to meet his questions with her eyes or have the two shake hands. "You laid the foundations for my house, Cato. We met eyes-" She hold up two fingers.

"-for two seconds," Cato smiles. His smile drops as he continues. "But I never saw you again," And Clove wants to scream at him, what does that matter if he has Peeta, that precious boy, who she could not stir a hand to strike him. Whatever she thins towards Peeta, it's so light and innocent, it's ivory in the light, but Cato comes to her and she sees red, violent, powerful, sexual and darker. And blood. When they speak, she sees the battlefield again.

He laughs. "I came back as a caterpillar." Catos' eyes are full of light when he speaks. "That's karma for you," Lost in his reverie, Clove recognizes him. "I turned into a butterfly and landed in the palm of your hand."

"I brushed you away," She professes, red-faced, unable to move.

"The rejection-" He looks up at her.. His face is going red. "It killed me." Her whole body is trembling, Jesus, she doesn't want to cry here, or now. Maybe he thinks she's strong enough to handle this, but she isn't. Clove sees all the things about him she liked, all the compliments on his body she thought he wouldn't need to hear that sink to the bottom of the blackest hole, unheard forever. "Than I-"

"You came back," Clove says to him. She's surer of it. Yes, she's certain of it now. "You left notes in places for me, you whistled my name into the wind hoping you could hear it back," She leans forward and takes his cheek in the slight of her fingers. "You carved our names onto trees, you searched for me hoping that I would come back." The tears are silent. Clove is ashamed, but she continues. Cato never cries, never, but there he is, face red, body shaking slightly like a lifeless brown leaf, teeth biting into lips until blood.

"Then you died they put these," Clove gestures. She laughs. "They put these coins over your eyes and you used them as fare just to come back and look for me,"

Cato is shaking his head.

No, he says. he says no and Clove feels the life drain from her fingertips. "No, you brush me away, and then I-" He swallows. "The lightning strikes me. It knocks me onto my knees and I get up." His voice is taught as a bowstring, where once he was the string in her bow. "I start running-.." He sighs. "And then I wake up."

The words hit her like a bullet in the back. He straightens and places Kara, sleeping, on the edge of the bed. He says no more. He leaves without a word, and Clove lets him, almost. Her neck is wrung with bruises, and when he looks at her Cato sees all the reasons why love really is like sunlight. Clove's body is raw with sunburn, but at least she knows she was there.

"I din't mean to hurt you," He mumbles. "I'm sorry,"

So Clove says, "Me, too," And he leaves without saying another word.

Upstairs, Peeta sleeps and doesn't dream a thing, as he shouldn't. The light was left on. Cato leans by the small switch and gets an image that he cannot place. A light in a chapel, wedding rings, and then a light in the pantry left on by an angel. It's odd, but he looks at Peeta and he sees universes, multiverses, everything and nothing collapsing and expanding in the wake of that boy.

But he doesn't see a sunburn.

And from love or lust or anything between sunlight if like love. You have to get burned to know you were there.

He doesn't sleep. On the napkins given to him at lunch, he writes everything he can remember about home, his parents, his childhood, and Peeta, and Clove. His mind puzzles over her, the queen of a thousand enemies. The Pharoah's daughter, the palm that he landed in, the string in his bow. He carries the thought with him like a guitar full oh phobias, ready to turn fear into is strongest instrument.

She is a stuttering soliloquy. A wounded symphonies played by her own 'I-told-you-sos'. She keeps moving forward with such ferocity, told that without her, and Cato, and all of the other small people, surplus to requirement, the revolution could not turn like Christ spinning in his grave. Or is that abstract concept just the carrot they dangle in front of the pawns to move them across the board?

When the morning comes, light slips through the window and wakes Peeta with a gentle shake. No Cato. But he gets gone, there are bigger fish to fry.

And nobody in all of Panem, no surplus of owner of victor or President can defy Peeta, now, made iconic by Cinna's hands, his embedded time a lightning rod amidst the storm, his Surplus status a sponge for judgment, and he has won, he is alive and he has Cato, if that's love maybe it comes at much too high a price, but now Peeta's defying gravity.

The best laid plans of mice and men, and a room full of important people, of Haymitch and Coin. What causes him to draw back like a shadow when he sees Cato, sat in the far corner, and then worse, Clove, who's eyes he cannot quite meet, closer. Peeta takes a seat closest to him. They close the door and the air becomes limited. Paint peels like rust on the walls. This is not a safe place. And Peeta has many questions, but doesn't get to. The opening piece is a poem in the form of a warning.

"They're going to attack District 12 and Three," There is no pentameter or rhyme but the effect is profound and Peeta can read every meaning. It's like they've torn a page from his soul: Peeta was born of the fist, the hot twelve temper. The smell of fresh grain, flower-dusted aprons and dirt tracks, of stale-cracker-and-old-mustard-sandwiches until money got through, school in cold rooms and high windows, Peeta was born of brawls and fights, from 'I didn't raise a coward' to 'sound it out, try harder, never give up, never give up, try harder, kick hard and leave scars, quite your crying or I'll give you something to cry about, run, rise, gallop, when the bottle won't break, use your hands'. Peeta is from using his hands.

"When?" Peeta does not speak because he can. He speaks because he needs to.

Haymitch looks fairly undistributed and leans back. He's too calm. Peeta wants to scream. He wants to use his hands. "We think, tomorrow," The woman at the head of the table, thin and sharp, steel-gray eyes that burn Peeta with their ice is the President. She wastes no time.

"We're going to evacuate as many people as we can." She explains. "What we need is for bigger Districts to rebel." She addresses him. "You're going to shoot an air a proganda film tonight," And then, she pulls away from Peeta, because here they are playing by her rules. Instead, she turns to Cato, and then to Clove. "With your help, we can influence the bigger Districts. Will you help?"

Immediately, Cato pipes up. "And what if that doesn't work?" His face is hard. "What if 2 doesn't listen?"

Coin swallows, curtly. "Nuclear warfare is a last resort," It's like a blow to the stomach. All of the air rushes from Cato's lungs. From all he can remember, he remembers 2, and how beautiful it is. How the people there had never been unkind to him, they were happy, and they went about their lives. Who are these people to know any better? The Capitol give them everything in return for masonry and trust? Will they really give that up for some shaky promise of revolution?

"You're going to kill all of those people just because they won't co-operate?" Cato's voice is rising with rage. "What's the difference between you and the Captiol, anyway?!"

Haymitch flares up. "You're one to talk." And he does have a point. Cato struggles to grasp onto a solid argument, but he knows from the fire in his veins that he would rather burn this place down then watch his home destroyed.

"And what if you fail? If they participate, you'll all be killed anyway!" Cato is breathless with thoughts. He turns to Peeta. "They'll kill you if-"

Peeta shakes his head. "Cato-"

"So we're just expected to let the districts starve for somebody else's gain?!"

He raises his voice to breaking. "I have friends there! They are good people! How can you blame them for what somebody else does?!"

"I'll do it." Clove's voice is unmistakable and tears through the shouting like a whisper through a crowd. Peeta looks up at her. She looks beautiful. Her eyes are tired from platitudes. The room freezes, and everybody stares at her. And while Cato's face forms into a horrified state of shock, Coin smiles with a menacing geniality, and she clears her throat. "I'll help,"

"Wonderful," Coin puts. She straightens. "If you follow Peeta down to munitions and research and we'll get started," And Clove smiles faintly. She has never known what it is to be tired from a day or work, honest work, for some kind of noble cause. She knows fatigue. And she knows work. After all that time, Clove knows better than to miss.

Something has changed. The others stay to discuss. Cato is the first to rise, with haste, angrily, kicking back his chair and marching out of the room, tense, arms bent at the elbow. Clove follows him, looking equally disgruntled. Peeta only goes quickly to try to prevent them from brawling. From using their hands like he was taught. But before he can speak, Clove whirls on her husband.

"Why wouldn't you have stayed calm for once instead of flying off the handle!?" her voice is sharp and cutting. "I hope you're happy," she scolds him. "hurting the chances of a revolution. I hope you're happy!" clover has never sounded so distant and hard.

Cato meets her with equal force. Their destruction works in tandem. "I hope you're happy too!" He nearly grabs for her again, but restrains himself. "Forsaking your own District so you can feed your own ambition!"

"You stupid bastard," Clove actually hits him. She's brave, but for this time he doesn't allow himself to hit back. "Come with us." Her voice goes soft . "Think of what we could do if we had your help." she drops her eyes. "Eventually we could go home. You want that."

Cato breathes out. "No. I'm not going home on their terms."

They part ways.

And down in munitions and research Peeta is given two lasts gifts from Cinna, who has yet to make it back. The first is a black jumpsuit, heavy and fitted. The sleeves and back have white flecks, and when he straightens, they look a little like wings. He finally understands the metaphor, sort of. In the Capitol, Peeta had been a canary, inoffensive, with a pretty song. And now, he is a mockingjay, even the word triggers laughter that trickles down from the Districts. The other gift is a bow, and it is explained to him that the bow was intended for Katniss, and it is is so straightforward to shoot that it's impossible to miss.

What was also intended for Katniss is a traditional suit of armor, a half-skirt of white feathers, a bodice, metal thigh-high plates. But, with a few adjustments, it fits clove fine. She's lining up for a throw when a voice breaks her concentration and compromises her accuracy.

"Do those shoes make in hard to walk in, sweetheart?" Cato leers at her. Clove turns, flashes him a smile, mostly genuine, and stamps hard on his toes.

"I don't know," Her voice is an elaborate pantomime of innocence. "Do they?"

"I'll help," he says, seriously. Clove considers what she's going to say. Words fail her, they are unsubstantial and reduce her sentiments to flawed ideas. "I'll help you."

"Then-" Clove's eyes drop. "I hope you're happy in what you've chosen,"

They attack 12 in the night.


	39. Act 9, Scene 2

Mist of late summer keeps the grounds spectral and the sky clear. There are stars and fading trails from planes coming in from the East, but still hours off yet. It's warm enough to squint to see. The vapour runs white like cloud. On a night like this, there's not a chance of rain. Peeta hears them talking about it, and he learns the words quick enough. Nightwitches.

Twelve's dirt-tracks are harder and ghostlier, where there were once girls kissing him off and mothers waving their last, there is nothing. Houses are quiet and still. Families of five squeeze in with one another, brothers stealing sheets and sisters going cold. The Bakery is further up, in the Merchant's Quarter, and to be honest, if Peeta saw it, he would crumble because he has outgrown it. Every time Peeta comes out of the phonebox, arms outstretched, those people, the ones he tries to save, are always the ones standing on his cape.

No rain, no redemption. The trails are tell-tale. Giveaway. To his left, the bow is leant against him, recurved, and the quiver of arrows on his back, Peeta knows how to shoot, they have told him and schooled him. He can't miss, they say, because of his equipment. Clove sits across from him. She hits her target every time, but not because of technological advantages: she fights with desperation, with the knowledge that she has lost Cato, and the only thing left to lose if this war.

Cato is further down the truck, swaying with universal motion as they drive through the dense forest. His face, just like Clove's, and Peeta's, is stark white from nerves and from terror. The rest are painted black, but these icons have to be kept separate, for everything they represent. Peeta can see that he looks as if his thoughts have turned on him. This is what he was trained for, this is his glorious purpose: the product of harrowing sport. The track bends and the passengers sway with the turn, leaning on to their weapons.

Mockingjay. Peeta isn't ready for any of this, he isn't built for battle, and yet, the sixteen-year-old they look to for guidance, must somehow become lion-hearted, must stare into the headlights and blink, casually.

He thinks of all the people he has tried to help before. Throwing Katniss that bread, only for her to be slain mercilessly. Her death lasted for hours by some Capitol creation. Irving. Jesus, Irving, so weak when she died, poisoned in her sleep, with only a Galbanna Lilly to her name. Cinna, still stuck, prisoner to his own state. _Katniss, Irving, Cinna. Cato...Cato!_

The truck swerves to a stop and then Peeta realises this is it. His heart is stuck in his throat as he stands, shakily. The bow weighs literally nothing, when he wraps his hands around it, the weight of everything makes it literally impossible to stand. He leads them out into the meadow, and towards the electric fence, silent, harmless. Sentries strip to panels of wire away, and then they split into three main sections, ready for the evacuation. Peeta leads the largest troupe: he knows the geography of the place. Clove leads another, and the last is under a soldier's orders. Cato is under Clove's orders.

The Nightwitches are at least another forty minutes. Peeta hurries them cross the old viaduct and above the entrances to lowtown, past an empty urban sprawl and into the square, in front of the town hall, where most of the businesses are. Sentries then branch off to evacuate households. Peeta takes in a deep breath. He takes two soldiers with him, and he heads towards the Bakery.

Nothing is more terrifying than being in a place you should know well, but finding it unfamiliar. The darkness throws grotesque shadows and triangular, pale light in strange places. It is a labyrinth to work out. He feels afraid, stepping in front of the empty counter. A participant, but not an active player. He wishes he had Cato with him, holding his hand, seeing what he sees now. He slides over the counter-top and walks into the kitchens.

The smell stimulates olfactory hallucinations. He swears he can hear the laugh of customers, of his father's voice and fresh squirrel traded from the raggedy girl with bow, long and lovely. Peeta strikes a match and lights the candle that always sits in the wall by the floor. It lights the room enough that he can see the stock,. Grains and flour and some meats. There's more here than he remembers: most likely Peeta's Surplusing. The flour sacks used to be his bed, his pillows, and his sheets. He can scarcely bear to look.

Outside, a ruckus is starting up. Merchants reluctant to leave their stock, some children crying, and stern men who demand words repeated. Peeta extinguishes the flame lighting the room, and he hurries out of the kitchens, and up the stairs. There is no basement: you cannot dig very far down in 12 without reaching water.

With a sharp knife and a lamp, a face appears at the head of the stairs. His mother. At first, she remains guarded, but sees Peeta, and softens to breaking. The knife drops defeated to the floor. The lamp falls to her side.

"Peeta," She whispers, not quite daring to believe it. He is afraid to confirm it, or to help them, left them become like Katniss, or Irving, or –or... "My God," She remarks, growing tearful. "Peeta-"

He resists his own emotions. "There's no time. You have to leave." Peeta turns his head and nods to the sentries with him. "Everyone does. Now,"

She just mocks him. After all of it: sending him away to 2, and then sending him into the Games, into the Career's line of fire, and into Cato's arms, she doesn't ever take him at his word. Peeta is a mockingjay, but he is humbled into silence by this woman of stone. "We can't," She says. "We have lives here, Peeta,"

"Not if you don't leave now," Peeta has become braver. He swallows his uncertainty, and remembers what Cinna had told him. The piano is not firewood yet, and that he's clever, they're going to remember him. Another voice adds to Peeta's opposition.

"Mother?" The voice is older somehow and Peeta is crippled suddenly. The sight of his brother is stapled to him, it is only one but it kills him. "Peeta!" the boy would hug him, but Peeta holds him off with a hand.

"Dannyl..." He manages, weakened. "You have to leave." He wants to say that the boy looks older, and better-fed. That 12 has shown his brother mercy where 2 never had: but he can't there's no time, and Peeta knows better than to be selfish, he knows better and a thousand times worse. So he turns back to his mother and swallows his anxiety. "Come with us if you want to survive."

Her arms fold, and she wouldn't budge an inch, only the other boy, with darker hair and more innocent eyes, Dannyl, he steps forward and there's somebody on Peeta's side, for once in his life. Any fool knows that the relations between the Capitol and the Districts is rocky, like glass, easy to impression and easy to break, but almost impossible to re-assemble.

Peeta is tense and motionless. His arms fold also, he doesn't dare to move because if he does he will break down. "Go wake up your brothers," His voice is stretched taught and the ends are tearing up. His hand trembles as he extends it towards to the door. "Dan, go, please, we don't have much time." So the boy goes.

"Will you come with us?" The woman says, suddenly. It winds him, like a punch to the stomach, Peeta is weak from the blow of the words. He looks down at is wrist, he knows that through the heavy sleeve there is a scar from the life she doomed him to, and it leaves him unsympathetic, and angry. That he was abandoned for their sakes. Peeta's face is beet red when he manages to grind out words through gritted teeth.

"You made your choice," He grants her one last look, and then he leaves. Not sorry to miss her at all.

The town is in chaos. Above, the Nightwitches draw closer and the place is still half-full, families huddled together in the night air, mothers hysterical, brothers ready to bear arms against anyone. The sentries lead them like prisoners, too slowly, arguing and protesting with eachother. And Peeta knows these people. They are good and if they don't hurry, they'll die for his cause, one that he doesn't even believe or want to actualise. Staring, petrified, something clamps to his side that snaps his from his trance.

"Prim," his voice is hoarse. He will not survive this night, beaten bloody by his own emotional turmoil, his love for Cato or his loyalties, them or us. The girl looks worse than when he saw her last, at the reaping. Thinner, paler. "I thought you were in 1. I thought you were a Surpl-" the component in her arm is ill-fitting and ugly, somehow harsh and an unjust punishment for tears.

"The trains stopped the day after the Reaping," She explains, strangely calm. A thousand years older in voice.

"Who stopped them?"

"The rebels." In a house one street down, a woman screams and Prim clutches closer to him. He realises all of these people will not live through this, and Peeta knows better than anybody else, as much as he'd like it to: _love cannot save_. For Katniss, he takes Prim's small hand.

"I need you to go over there, with Cato—"

"No!" she cries out bloody murder, spinning back and burying her face in Peeta's shirt.

"Please, we don't have much time, it'll only be for a second," Her hands turn to fists when he heaves her, stronger than when he were last her, over his shoulder, Prim screams.

"No! No!" Her pleas tear the skin from Peeta's spine. "He killed my sister!" Her body sags with sorrow. "He murdered her."

"To survive," Peeta says weakly. Why should this world be over-wise? Why should it pit his two greatest loves against one another?

"How is he any different from the Capitol?" she demands an answer. Peeta places her down and kneels in front of her, contrite, just as afraid despite being older, being an 'icon'. He's just a surplus, a useless boy, only his scars glisten with gold.

"I love him,"

From across the field, the troupe leader calls him out. "Peeta!" And then gestures a hand towards the approaching threat, leaving trail of clouds, Captains of the Sky, but not of the Earth. "Slow them down!"

This is what he was most afraid of. He lets Prim go, her face hard with betrayal. Cato taught him to shoot once, mocked him for an improper grip, laughed at his time taken to shoot, or his inaccuracy. Peeta can't miss. He both cannot afford the waste, and he has the advantage. Between the shouts and screams, he lifts the bow, feeling the thing light in his hand. He pulls out an incendiary arrow and places the nock onto the string, relaxing, before he straightens and pulls back. A glass sight flicks over his dominant eye and helps him to focus on the planes scraping the silent skies.

He pulls back very slowly, drawing with great strength; arms bent slightly, the tip of the arrow slightly higher to aim the perfect shot. He exhales slowly. Do it for Prim. And for Katniss, and Irving and Cinna. No good deed goes unpunished. Here, no act of charity unresented. He sights, exhales again, and lets go.

The slice of the arrow is swift as the woodcutter's swing, and Peeta watches through the sight with great trepidation as the thing soars, the mechanics taking hold and keeping the flightpath dead straight. 12 is silent as death when the arrow reaches it's target, colouring the night with intense orange and burning metal. One down.

And while Peeta feels sick, this burning in his mouth making him keel over and dry-heave, the rest of them break out into a celebration. His knees go beneath him and Peeta is reeling when two arms fix around him and pull him to standing.

"Come on, "Cato's voice is gentle in his ear. "That one was autopiloted, you didn't kill anybody," He sighs. "Nobody's hurt." And Peeta leans back and sucks in a ragged breath on the back of a whimper. Of all things to feel at the sundering of an enemy, fear is not rational, but Peeta is crying, the noise trapped in his throat.

His closed eyes open and he sees Clove, amidst a crowd of miners, staring, frozen and jarring and painted by the sight stapled to her. Her hands are fists. She is the only pallor in an ocean of seam-grey, her white face illuminated through rage, Clove tears a knife from one of her pockets and considers it. And just as she does, Cato lets go.

He's staring back at her. And while Cato remembers quite a few things, he doesn't remember feeling this. His senses are heightened and his face is flushing and he trembles slightly. Clove is far too violent and she's not at all feminine and she stand there daring to question Cato. He cannot place the feeling, but everything about that woman makes him irritably, twitchy, nervous and mad.

Yes, that's it. _Loathing_. Pure, unadulterated and vehement loathing.

Clove, too, remembers loving him, but always, always hating him. There has always been a slow-burning resentment between them that fuels the best of relationships, and yet now the slow burn has been ignited and she just feels angry, furious, not even at Peeta, there in his arms. Well, no good deed goes unpunished, and Clove swears that Cato's love will be made afraid as hers was.

the Nightwitches are reacting fast to destruction, and it catalysed the evacuation. They take the children first, with Prim following Peeta, tears drying, towards the convoy. Then the women, with Mrs Everdeen looking at Peeta with icecold eyes,. Peeta thinks about how loving Cato has left him here, and then he realises it.

They don't believe in his version of good. Peeta's own naivety or ignorance is found boring, and frankly, his words fall short of effect. Because he has betrayed them, and his own ailing heart. It's always been a war, not between Capitol and Districts, but between the states themselves, and Peeta has picked 2, and not twelve.

The truck wheels start spinning like Irving spinning in her grave, or Katniss spinning out and too far from Peeta's hand to be saved. They have gathered as many as they can, more than enough, families squeezed into the trucks. It's an act of kindness.

There's never enough time. Peeta is barely away with the last of them. They turn the meadow before the place gets blown to ash by liquid fire. It burns blue. Not like resin but resin itself, and suddenly the fight has become personal. All of the trucks pause under the cover of forest, they know they are done for if something isn't done.

What's worse still is the waves of soldiers, their soldiers, falling in from the old town square, brandishing guns and bullets and these people have nothing but a soul-crushing hope that things will get better, for they are so afraid of missing it.

Peeta knows what he has to do. Clove leads her third of the sentries with a practised wave, and she stands besides Peeta, ready with two knives already in hands.

"Moment of truth, Hero."

Peeta loads the bow, his hands shaking, and he aims it at the growing crowd of enemy. He cannot bear to kill them, or to let go of the drawn string. What better is he to dirty his hands? This war is not about bloodshed, it's about revolution of ideas. And dead men cannot say a word for themselves.

The words come like a hot whisper in his ear.

"Shoot!" Peeta wants nothing more than to take Cato at his word, but cannot. He shakes his head, dropping the bow to his side. And expecting to find softness, Cato tears the bow from his hands and loads it himself. "This is bigger than you,"

See, Cato isn't merciful or gentle like Peeta. he pulls back and lest go without blinking, his face hard in concentration. Fire erupts and death appears in volumes. The ones at the front survive enough to continue on. They meet the rebels with equal numbers.

Clove throws the first knife, not thinking of Peeta or Cato, not of her jealousy or loathing, but of her daughter. If all of this fails, what future can any of them hope for? It's what drives her to lift a hand, and indeed not to miss. A knife lands to the hilt, burying itself in some hapless soldier's heart. She doesn't spare any of them a glance and runs into the fray.

Cato himself has only a sword but drives forward anyway, tearing apart his opposition with a practised malice. The blood tastes like memories and sings him home as he cuts through those that threaten what he strives for. As he fends off one at his front, another behind him presses the nose of a rifle into Cato's neck and laughs.

"You're dead,"

Cato swipes, spinning, and catches him on the other side of the bale, "You first," he manages, snapping back to the rest of them.

Clove throws him a look. "Fall back!" she cries out. And he would laugh, but their numbers are massing again, so he just nods, contemptuously. Peeta watches them both, fighting, interacting That's something Cato is drawn to, strength and physical dominance, so he loads his bow and takes aim. Exhaling slowly, he closes his eyes, and relaxing his fingers, letting the bow snap, and the arrow fly.

He wipes out the enemy in an instant, and is left with Cato staring at him, impressed, the ghost of a smile haunting his lips. Those waiting in the convoy start to cheer. They're cheering for Peeta. At first, he is frozen in horror, and then he raises the bow into the air with his left hand, his face grows hard.

Cinna always advised him to look 'above it all'. Peeta had been told that he felt too much, and he knows that the battlefield of all places is where he'll be compromised. So he removes himself from this place, tries to forget, and withdraws the emotional investment in Cato, and Clove. but only for a little while. these people will not take him seriously if they see him as a lovesick boy. They listened to Katniss because she was so removed from it, everything the Mockingjay encompasses, strength and solidarity and solitariness.

There they have him. the 'icon'.

Of the twelve-hundred and eighty-one residents of District Twelve, just less than a thousand were made home in 13. but not a lot less. Peeta's family and Prim were among them. The tailor is another. He has Irving's grassy-blue eyes, and Peeta will never forgive himself for that failure. For now the agony of it is staunched by his own victory.

The people thank him as he passes, goes down the long, winding corridor an changes, slowly, in front of his bathroom mirror. Out of the sleek, coal-black suit and into plain white. He sometimes misses Surplusing. things had been very simple. His is one of the few with warm water. Peeta washes a few scraps of his, and rinses his face before retiring to bed, feeling drowsy

He almost dozes off, but the emptiness from where Cato should be leaves him dissatisfied. Peeta tosses and turns for hours, never daring to worry about Cato after victory, after begin assured that while 'this is bigger than him', he has not forgotten Peeta. Of course, Peeta can tell himself that all he liked, it won't make it true.

Or any truer than love or lust or loathing.


	40. Act 9, Scene 3

Anything that doesn't belong in the time it appears is a relic. Relics survive the past when people or feelings cannot, and they usually emerge to some great importance. They're usually priceless, beautiful. They usually fill observers with a sense of awe or nostalgia. And not this feeling. Not this exhilarated detestation at the coy, sparkling wink of the gold ring.

Cato stars at it with an emotionless face. It's supposed to evoke memories of his, that's for sure. He's supposed to break down like it's the answers to all his prayers, it's supposed to remind him of Clove's kiss, of her pleasure with the lights off. There is very little sentiment or nostalgia. And what there is, Cato waters down with the most vehement lamentation.

It's her, he assures himself. Cato knows that he can be hateful, but not like this. Clove makes his skin crawl, makes his eyes water every time they exchange glances. She makes him wish he had bluer eyes, and a knife. She makes him wish for flowers to trample.

He tells everybody that she is impossible and it's pointless to try and describe her.

Clove explains to everybody 'He's blonde'.

When or wherever she looks, she feels furious and yet somehow powerless. Her disgust only stems from the resentment of love. Cato's eyes are filled with stars because of Peeta but it was always Clove that mistook his name for the moon, mistook his hands for weapons of love and lust.

There's something about it she derives the greatest pleasure from, even though she would never say. To hate him is a sport. They cut him from the finest cardboard they could find. Cato is foolish and gallant, he pours whiskey onto his daydreams until they taste like good ideas. How could that possibly be endearing?

They never exchange words to eachother but passing, briefly. Between Cato's conjugal visits, sat in silence, he comes and goes, and when they meet eyes across one of the dining halls, corridors, munitions rooms, she looks away and turns red, curse her nature. Cato hides it better, but Clove knows. It makes her smirk.

Despite what they tell everybody, the talk turned fast on them. Of how looks they shared over ivy-covered balustrades and not greying tables were intense enough to set the rest of middle-Panem on fire, leaving the Capitol and the infidels smoulder in the cornfields. It is said that ideas spun on Clove's lips could manipulate the strings to Cato's breathing.

The war continues.

The Capitol take the east of 3, and the rebels take the west. They hold their territory without the possibility of negotiation. The people look to Peeta for some kind of guidance. They count the minutes on his embedded time like it's a lightning rod, a talisman for nobility, for rising up, when really Cato knows it means being an object, owned, purchased. Isn't that what the Districts are anyway?

The boy is sixteen, exhausted. Youth is no guarantee of innovation. Back and forth from the front of 3 for months, Peeta has no time. He stares at Cato with the eyes of a century, open to too much too soon. And even when Peeta does have time, Cato never gets excited when Peeta calls says 'love' because that's the name he gives to all of the branches in his life destined to be abducted by the wind. First his mother, who decided she was too thirsty to pour water on one of her seeds in particular.

He slips through Cato's fingers ever few days. Fighting, filming, discussing, giving out his words that shake the foundation of definition. And when Cato does see him, Peeta is worn and pained and he never says anything, anymore. That desire to see the world has fallen fast into the yoke being shaken from this, the most auspicious of night sky stars.

Every time he goes Cato stays wide awake. He is not a God-fearing man but in loneliness he prays to whomever he trusts to listen, 'Peeta, that marvellous boy, don't let them get him, or hurt him, or change him. However hard they try, let him live, Crucified Christ, let him live enough to see this through'. Because Cato sees ghosts in the darkness of loneliness, he sees Irving with eyes like ice, weak at his hands, Katniss, twirling fast, into shadows, into where Peeta could never follow.

And all of Panem is in agreement on the matter that Cato will not be able to save Peeta, that love cannot prevent and devotion will not triumph, he is a monster for failures beyond his command. Yet still he prays.

Peeta goes for a week at once without a word. Footage of him comes up now and then. He is unrecognisable. What Cato recognises is the dead, the wars, and he's always forgetting things thesedays, he'll never remember anything. He's brainless for sure, but what he remembers always, what he knows is the feeling of fighting a war with both an advantage and disadvantage.

It turns to fall and it gets cold fast, colder than Cato remembers. Sometimes he dreams about the ice of a lake cracking underneath his feet. He dreams that he sinks into the inky black of the water, searching for someone, for her, but when he reaches out, he finds a murderous insanity that has him swimming for air. And when Cato finds the surface, the glimmer of the moon, he is too late. The lake is frozen once more.

Cato has said that he pities the fool who gives his heart to Clove. But when she appears n his dreams, it's not pity he feels for himself, or even her, but something else deeper and stronger, and a whole lot harder to destroy.

She comes to him at midnight. She borrows the moonlight and wears it on her bareback. Her skin is pale as he starlight and she wears nothing but courage, hatred and a long black gown. Cato's face appears in the gap between door and wall. He appears not to trust her. ~

"What do you want?" His voice is quick and impatient. Filled with loathing, and Clove is almost glad to see he feels it too, she finds herself allured by the fire of lamentation.

"I'm alone," She says. It would seem obvious but he understands right away. Alone as in free of company and agenda and kindness.

"I can see that," he goes to turn away. "Run along," Clove's foot is in the door physically but it has been there for months unseen, she isn't ready to roll over and let 'us' lie like a corpse festering besides her.

What shocks her is that Cato is the first to let the door swing free, grabbing her fiercely and with too much fervour, kissing her so truly and just like she remembers that Clove swear to God she can feel the fire in his fingertips burning down the Capitol and everything else. The kiss is unlimited and the entire universe collapses and expands around them, and Peeta Mellark can go hand because Cato kisses with his hands bound around her voice.

Clove smiles when she slaps him. A punishment too intimate for most.

"You narcissistic son of a bitch," She scolds him, rising to her full height. But Clove is advancing and she closes the door and drop the robe with a very slight smile because she was never an easy catch, not once, and especially not for him.

Cato is happy to let her in. He puts his hands on her hips and stares up at her with eyes feral and dominated by pupil. "Slut," He calls her. The word rings out as golden as home.

Cato does not turn red when she presents herself to him. Takes off everything but her smirk and takes his wrist. Her breasts feel soft. Clove says, "Touch me,"

Cato does. He touches her like a diabetic child fighting with chocolate strawberries. Clove says, "_Hard._"

Cato thinks 'yes, I am'.

With an unknown but practised hand he traces her and she stands completely open for him. Cato knows this is a powerplay. He knows that she will use him, that this resentment is passion. His nails leave red trails down her back, Clove scratches and bites and kicks, her face is red with pleasure and pain and she hurts him, draws blood to make sure neither of them are quick to forget.

They keep themselves quiet and unannounced. Cato isn't breathing as he rises to her, his movements intensifying as he comes closer to his own end, Clove pinned beneath him, happy to share the illusion of control with Cato. Her cries started soft and pretty now sound agonised and depraved, Clove goes with sobs and shakes, begrudged and not given so easily. Her eyes are closed and her hands are fists, back arched, toes curled, body taught as a bowstring.

Cato follows her. He wants to see how deep this labyrinth will go.

And after he has done, Clove puts a still-shaking finger to his lips and grabs his bare shoulder with another hand, nails digging hard. "Don't tell Peeta," She half-smirks.

It had felt so natural that Cato hadn't thought to question or remember. He takes Clove at her word and more because she cannot just let go or forget. She cannot erase the stretch marks that texture her skin, the scars from where Cato had been before. She still sees Cato's eyes every day, in Kara, and he's sure it must kill her.

Afterwards, he doesn't want to think or breathe. Peeta's shower has hot water and he stands under the jet until his skin is red. He remembers the feel of her lips, softer than whispers of angels that fall in love, and it kills him. He changes the sheets, his clothes, he tries to forget.

But worst of all, he cannot deny her loveliness. That night he doesn't sleep. He just keeps thinking 'some men are proud of this'.

Peeta returns when the weather turns, only two days later and he brings the cold with him. Cato smiles, he is glad, but he feels something else, too. Something much less honourable than happiness or guilt. Cato enjoyed Clove. In his mind he knows he'd like to enjoy her again. While Peeta is fighting for good and freedom, while he tries to defeat the evils of the Capitol, Cato is sleepless with infidelity.

Clove had laughed at him. She said it wasn't the first time. And Cato would have done something had her laugh not been so golden. Had she not been telling the truth.

So when Peeta says 'I missed you', Cato knows for certain that he means what he says. Even love, poisonous as it may be, Peeta says it with eyes full of wonder. The only grace Cato has is knowing that he missed Peeta, too. After all, why would he lay paralysed, repeating the prayer he was taught by the sentries from other districts if he didn't care?

Peeta says that he was blessed by the Etro in an ironic voice, he says because he once took the Eucharist she was saving his soul. It's not a joke Cato understands, but he laughs because he needs too. Peeta is always glad to be back. He sleeps more. He laughs more. If Peeta only knew; would he ever laugh again?

So the next time Peeta is in an important meeting, or being hauled away by the President, Cato takes the time he can and he finds Clove, fucks her on grey sheets and gives them life. When they're finished Clove grins and closes her eyes and tries to pretend they're back in 2, that the house is still beautiful and there's still sunlight streaming through the windows and music is blaring from the piano.

"We have to tell Peeta," She says, all of a sudden. Cato slips on his shirt and gives her a hard look. He stares, for too long and Clove knows she shouldn't have spoken. He moves across the bed slowly, like an anaconda ready to squeeze the life out of her. It's not like he hasn't done it before.

"Clove-" He begins, reaching out a hand that she slaps away. Her face grows hot and she turns red, flicking the switch on her lust and then her love. Because in Cato she sees the smirk of every woman who wanted him when he had the delusion of playing husband, she sees the shadow of the hunter under the torture, the jealousy that made her forge the great anger, sick in the night, nauseous nauseous nauseous.

"Don't you touch me!" She hisses, rising sharply and covering herself with the sheets. She has become what she despised, what kept her from sleeping and it makes her feel physically ill. "You!" She points the finger so fast. "You did this! You did this to me!" Cato doesn't like to be blamed. And he isn't about to take the blame. He won't carry it all.

"I did what you asked me to, sweetheart," He brands her with the word, and she can feel it on her skin, making her feel even fainter. Cato crosses the room slowly. He grabs her arm with a hand that could crush her spine. She's so aware of it, and she's scared when he kisses hard too hard, and smiles. "This works, Clover, we both get what we want,"

"And Peeta-" She squirms and Cato squeezes.

"Peeta doesn't find out." He shakes his head. "You want to break his heart like that? You really think he deserves that?" and there's sorrow in his voice, there's sadness, like it would break Cato's heart more if Peeta knew, if Peeta's eyes lost that light and innocence. The boy thinks he's in love, the boy thinks he knows, and Clove knows his heart in that way. Peeta doesn't have to make that mistake, he doesn't have to be so callow.

"You'd break his heart-…" Cato swallows. "You'd break his heart to feel better." His grip is soft and she stares at the eyes she once knew so well. It is the single scariest and loneliest thing to find no recognition in something she knew so well and loved so well. She can't forget. She won't.

"Nothing stopped you," she remarks, coldly, and her voice becomes a tremolo. She grows angrier. "You didn't try to hide all of those whores you had In our bed!"

"Clove…" his voice is a pathetic knocking on the door and she ignores it, him, the rest of the world. Clove hits him over and over, not hard, but with force enough.

"You never even tried, and you loved me harder than him!" Clove crumbles to pieces too fast, she falls and Cato catches her with hands that cannot heal, or make anything better. He holds her there and Clove does not allow herself to cry, she holds her breath ad bites hard. She was raised harder than this. How can Cato's eyes dissolve her so quickly?

"I'm sorry," Cato says. He has never meant 'sorry' in his life, ever. On the whole, Cato is an unapologetic son of a bitch, he's proud and arrogant and rude and blonde and pretty and Clove loathes every bit of him as much as she's bound to loving him. "I'm sorry about me."

"I hate you," Clove whimpers. "You cheap, nasty bastard, I hate you."

Cato lets her fists thump on his chest until she is diminished like a dwindling flame. He keeps is arms around her. "I hate me, too." And he does. He hates himself, and Clove, and he hates that she keeps him awake, he hates that she comes to him in dreams, or her laughter haunts him when he kisses Peeta. Worst of all, he hates that he can never be honest. That his heart ails constantly, that his eyes covet.

"You said we'd be together," Clove whispers. Her eyes are dangerous when she looks at him. "You said we'd grow old together, you promised."

Cato is content to hold her. He rests his chin on the top of her head and sighs. She's warm against his heart. "I must have loved you incredibly hard," He remarks. Clove sighs.

"You did." Cato did, when he broke that promise. Clove's turn.

The winter sets in. It begins to snow and fighting becomes more political, less physical. There are still fronts to which poor, unsuspecting sentries get sent. They die at the hands of the Capitol's power, and instruments of chaos. Peeta assures the people like a kindly king, the end is in sight, their sacrifice will not have been in vain. He's right, though. The rebellion has one thing the Capitol doesn't have: solidarity.

Peeta thinks so, anyway. At least, for a while.

Clove opens her door to him as equals and ushers him in. Offers a drink and sits, watching his face, carefully. It's Peeta' own leisure time, precious and rare, and he wastes it on her. She should be so flattered. But instead of feeling gracious, she fees nervous. Every look he casts her with those ice-cold eyes makes Clove wonder if he sees right through the brave façade. Makes her wonder if he's angry, or disappointed.

"You look well," He says, gives her a hug that should twist a knife somewhere. "I'm glad," Clove remembers how enraptured she was by him, and she laughs, allows herself to be happy. He picks up her braid and feels it over in his hand. "You look very beautiful, you know." Peeta is like a child, he can't seem to control himself. He hugs her again, with such glee. "I didn't think I'd see you again after the Games. We've barely spoken."

Clove is stifled by his contact. She puts the smile back on when he can see her face. "So much has changed," She says, in a lukewarm voice. "I wouldn't have thought you'd have any time." Peeta blushes. His face, and even his manner, he appears so much older, and somehow harder to destroy. But appearances are deceitful, and Clove knows she need only say the word and he could crumble like Jericho's walls to hear it.

Clove knows she did when she saw.

"How goes the revolution?" She strives for a breezy tone. Peeta closes down, a little. His voice becomes very small and he looks down. Not the react she wants from the icon, the one supposed to be most optimistic ad confident. In all of the propaganda he really does look the part, but all of that fighting and smiling and believing must be exhausting, she cannot even imagine.

"Why me?" Peeta asks. "I mean, I know I shouldn't complain." That's the Surplus in him. The apologetic, smile-through-the-fear, stuttering heart-pounding bastard of a Surplus still inside of him. He has the heart of a child, still. "I'll be seventeen in a few weeks," he sighs. "Who the hell I am to lead this revolution?" Peeta looks pained. "I have to smile and talk it all but I'm not what Katniss was supposed to be. I'm not—" Another sigh. "I'm not all that good with words, and I'm not strong enough for this. I'm not the mockingjay, Clove, I'm just a Surplus,"

"You're not," Clove says, slowly. She looks at him. "Peeta, you're-"

He looks up and smiles. It's the most tragic thing Clove has ever seen. "Well, the nice thing about being a Surplus is you're replaceable," His voice is heavy with thought. Clove goes to comfort him, in some hollow way but falls short and instead offers him her eyes. He takes them with grace. The silence is painful until Kara stirs from the next room, until she starts to cry.

"I'm sorry," Clove says. She brings her daughter out and stills the air quickly, with patience and practise. Peeta watches, distantly, feeling sickness in his stomach because those eyes are Cato's, the ones looking into his soul.

"That's okay," Peeta says. He feels too intrusive, so he rises to leave. "I should really get back."

Clove looks him square in the eyes. "It was good to see you again," She tells him.

"You, too," Peeta nods. He leans down and kisses her out of courtesy. What paralyses him when he walks down the corridor and up the stairs, and what keeps him stiff when he lays down to sleep some hours after is the smell on her skin. At first, he cannot place it, despite the fact it stirs deep within him.

Cato is unusually late and slips in besides him in the darkness. They kiss, briefly, and Peeta lets himself feel happy, foolishly happy, for the briefest of moments.

Until he realises.


	41. Act 10, Scene 1

_Peeta, why did you choose to lean on a falling man? Or want for something you could never have?_

In the dream, Cato is swimming. He swims through warm water, warm and cool and nice. The sun beats down on his glistening bareback as the waves call him home. As the sun sets, the water grows colder. Cato swims regardless. It feels as if it's the only thing he can do. So Cato swims and the water turns colder, colder, until it's icy and black. Still, he swims until he can heave himself onto ice. The ice itself is opaque with crystals and tough.

He starts to run, now. He runs across the ice and onto a cold bank of dark prairie grass and into dense forests. All of the colours are distorted to him: the leaves are a pale, translucent blue and the trunks that weave and trip him are a dark, Prussian blue. The ground is hard, but he feels no pain.

Clove told him, once, that you get used to it. This pain like a dull malice. That Cato's nose will seal itself up when he dives headfirst into the water. That his eye will develop nictitante membranes and his hands will grow their own gloves; invisible and impenetrable. He runs for so long and Cato wakes white-faced, out of breath and alone. Mostly alone.

The first time he remembers seeing Clove naked is four months, two weeks and two days ago. He has been sleeping with her for that long and he thought he was made of stronger materials.

Peeta plays solitaire in the break room. He picks up an ace and looks at it through tears. He sees the simplicity of the card and wonders how it is that the lowest value can also be the highest. He looks at the card and then at his embedded time and then he knows why.

Peeta can still taste Cato's infidelity like a curse from Clove on her husband's lips, that they may taste of him forever. And all of the other cards seem to turn on the ace, the awkward card of the suit, how could he possibly not see this coming, they ask him?

None of them want to hear how Cato is an endless, beautiful man. They only want to watch his car-crash of a life unfold in the Games.

Peeta places the card down on the table and wipes at his eyes. It's true, at least for now, that romance is dead and gone, because Peeta is behind the smoking barrel, jaw clenched tight, two neat little bullet-holes in the chest and head. Peeta is sick of love, it is too rough and it burns his insides. It burns him up but never does him the mercy of death. He wishes there was some way, any way at all, that he could make either of them feel like he does. Puppet of the rebels, enemy of the Capitol, fool in Cato's eyes.

Maybe he needs reminding who the real enemy is.

Peeta stands slowly. And when he stands, he is no longer a boy. He marches briskly to a sentry. He asks for her, first.

They comes to Clove past midnight. Past midnight, and she is sleepless with fear. That somehow the scars on her back where Cato was were visible to Peeta. As if the Surplus somehow saw where Cato scratches his name into her back like a broken sunset and became everything she lived for. He knows, Jesus, he knows, and Clove has felt jealousy before, like a poison. She hears them knock and opens up with great apprehension. Her arms are curled tight around Kara, now a little more aware of the world. The child stays quiet, sensing the feat, learning it through observation.

The guest is a sentry. Clove relaxes. Maybe she really is just losing her mind.

"Peeta Mellark requests that you proceed to room 12 on the 6th floor presently,"

Maybe not. Clove wants to scream, but aside from blanching, she says nothing. In the second she gets to think, Clove knows she has to find Cato. She has to tell him or warn him, or at least give him Kara, for the time. She plays her strongest card: anger.

"Do you know what time it is?" she places one arm akimbo. "This rendezvous can wait, I have to sleep." She turns to go, plays it cool and angry, but somehow shaking inside. What makes her nearly scream is when the sentry reaches out an arm and grabs her. Clove tenses up and her hands curl into fists. She breaths out, and pulls back. "You get your hands off of me,"

"Peeta Mellark requests that you proceed to room 12 on the 6th floor presently," The sentry repeats himself in a perfect one-tone rendition. The matter seems pressing to him. Clove acts fast, not stumbling, improvising. How very adaptable. Cato would call her a cocky bastard if only he were awake and here. If only. Jesus, Clove is desperate if she's wishing for him in a moment of crisis.

"Yes, alright," She says, sharply. "I heard you," It's cold out in the hallway. The lights are sterile and bright like milk. She adjusts herself. "At least let Cato put her to sleep," She slips out into the cold. The door closes behind her. The Sentry stalks her up the hall and Clove feels so damn scared, she can hear every creak in the floor, in his shoes, every hitch in her breathing amplified a thousand times, she is scared. Cato sleeps with Peeta. She appears brightly at the door and knocks.

Without hesitance, Cato appears looking pale and old. He lets her in and the Sentry waits outside. The moment the door closes she loses it.

Clove's body fails before she does, slumping back against the door, folding in like a house of cards. Cato watches her, hard, for a few seconds before stepping forward. What causes the apprehension is the terror on his eyes. It takes an awful lot to make Clove cry, perhaps too much, and she hides it well. She does not dare to try and hide the fear in her eyes, so startling that the sight is stapled to him. On the floor, Clove looks sick with grief. Her voice is a cutting whisper when she speaks.

"He knows," Is all she has to say. At first, Cato feels it like a shot. He staggers back a little, hurt by it, hurt by a truth he is too dizzy to face. He pretends everything is okay and tries to shrug, tries to laugh but the movement is jarring and the sound gets trapped in his throat and sounds like a wounded animal. He's got too much damn pride, and even still, he tries to play it off, coming to her with gentle, practised hands. He kisses her like a belated apology and takes Kara as if it will alleviate Clove's terror. She grabs him, suddenly."Oh, Jesus," her voice is still so quiet, and helpless.

Cato draws back. "It's fine," He says, distantly, even if it isn't true. Clove wants desperately to be home. She wants to be on old terms, like old friends. At least there she knew. Better the devil she once dreamed than this. How dare she have ever spoke of sin to Cato, how could she have turned on him for his infidelity when she instigated this one? Cato grabs her and kisses her too hard. So hard it hurts, and she claws him off. Cato is frantic. "It'll be fine," He tries, "He wouldn't hurt you. He'd never hurt you-"

Clove doesn't give him the intimacy of a slap. She punches him as hard as she can muster and Cato falls onto his side. It unsettles Kara, but Clove ignores it, surprises her love because the situation calls for it. She spits at him."Open your eyes and face reality!"

They both know what they're not saying: devil take the hindmost.

Cato stands up on slow and weaker legs. Despite her murmurs, he places the child to bed very peacefully, and with great care, as if he were precise in any art. The moment she is safe, he turns back to Clove. A small spray of blood has caught him on the corner of the mouth. He sighs. "It's going to be okay,"

Clove snaps. She comes at him and raises her hand to hit him again. Cato takes her wrist in his steel grip and doesn't release her until she turns away. For a second, he thinks she's calm and relaxed, before she spins back around and strikes him again, harder. It hurts, making his thoughts dizzy and his head reel. Clove nurses her fist and stands over hi, still hot. Her whisper is as hard as her shout.

"You did this to me." She reminds him icily. "You've done this to Peeta."

"He won't-"

Clove threatens him with her eyes. "Shut up!" her voice dips again, she sounds much more dangerous and edgy in the faux-calm. "Peeta knows what you did." Her voice becomes bitter and low. "The jealousy will drive him mad," Her hand stings desperately with the force of her own love and hate and jealous. Cato looks at her, and he looks pathetic. He speaks in a voice like the rain.

Cato says: "I need you." And that's how Clove drowns. She swallows but her throat is dry and her heart is creeping up her throat like vomit. She feels as if she's been torn in half by a yankee bayonet. It tears her insides up but she doesn't move. Doesn't speak, because, Jesus Christ, what could she say? What might she tell him that he doesn't already know? _If he doesn't love her, he would let her go._

The knock on the door is abrupt. "Now, Miss Almasy,"The given name is like a barrel of a gun, reminds Clove who's side she's on, really. He fought with her over that stupid name. After all, it will be on her grave. Her face drains of blood again and she sobers.

"Okay," She says. It's not, but she says it anyway. Turns to Cato and swallows, trying hard to keep her face unreadable. "I'll see you soon," she tells him in a voice like broken glass. He doesn't stop her when she turns to go, a curse on his lips to taste of her. Clove turns goes and her violet perfume with her. It leaves Cato defeated, completely, left at his own cruel mercies. He thinks about Peeta.

"Clove-" he sounds pitiful. "Lie. I made you. I held you down and you couldn't stop me," She smiles. Defeated, she smiles and puts a hand on her stomach. Cato doesn't get it at first. He doesn't stand up, propped up on the bed, weakened by the sight.

"Jesus," She laughs. "You just don't know when to quit, do yo-"

The door opens behind her. The sentry takes her roughly by the arms and pulls her out. Clove panics. "You get your goddamn hands off of me!" she kicks and struggles and batters against him, flops like a fish on a line, some meal fit for a king who will never be hungry. Cato rises and nearly steps in. But Clove relaxes. She shakes the grip off and walks on, fighting for her dignity.

"It's going to be—" The door snaps shut on the thought. Fine.

Fine. Okay. Cato doesn't trust either of those words. He interprets Clove's gesture a second too late, and crumples again, overwhelmed with the realisation, and scared. Kara, staring silently, sat up like a good girl, stares at him with his own eyes. She has dark hair, and it grows fast. She can utter simple enough noises. After so long in silence, she blinks at Cato and reaches out a hand. She squeaks for her mother.

"You want Clove?" he asks. The child nods, understanding most of what he asks her. Kindly, he pulls her up into his arms and sits with her. "Me too, kid."

The thought sits besides him and he feels the breath of an imagined corpse on the air. Me too, kid. Me, too.

He sends his best wishes to Clove as she sets off down the hallway alone, and then into the elevator. Her arms are hot from where she's been grabbed. What leaves her paralysed most is the look in Cato's eyes, his confusion. Him not understanding, when Clove hadn't found the courage to speak. She only hopes he can infer or interpret. She only hopes for many things.

And with even more floors to ride she becomes anxious. Clove tries to recall what she had done when first confronted with Cato's infidelity. She didn't shout or raise her tmpers. She hadn't even hit the bastard.

(Clove's paradoxical logic: Peeta should have foreseen this, because Cato has only lived up to his reputation, and technically, eh is still married to Clove so under the eyes of God the betrayal was to her. Yet, at the same time, Peeta loves hard and furiously, and it seems only fair that he cry over a broken heart, better he howl than say nothing. )

Peeta is kind. She remembers that feeling of what could have been love but was likely just loneliness finding a kindred spirit. It breaks her heart to think of him hurt, and all because she wants, all because she is selfish. This only works against her own indignance that Peeta so readily climbed into bed with Cato despite the ring still on the man's finger. Oh, love. It is too rough and fickle, too painful to describe. Yet, it never grants the mercy of death.

Clove swallows. Her hands are wringing like tormented snakes and her face is hot. She had not been able to utter the words to Cato, and barely even herself yet still. Perhaps Peeta's sensitivity will work to her advantage.

The door open and her heart drops down into her feet, making them soles of lead heavier than her own soul. Clove did not think it possible. The sentry grunts, humourless and loveless, so Clove moves forward. She knows his type, moving with utter gracelessness. She has been in fist-fights with worse, hell, even sometimes misses those fights. At least she knew where she stood with her own two hands after being raised of the fit and the hot temper. Peeta is all talk. He's all talk and words don't come too easy for Clove.

Peeta himself, the icon, the legend? He sits alone, just some boy with a wired wrist like from the trains of the outline districts only his hair glistens with gold and his eyes are bluer than mercy's. The moment he looks at Clove, already wrestling nerves and his conscience and whatever else, he throws himself to standing and goes as if to leave. She calls after him, because it is her only option.

"Peeta!" Her pleas fall on deaf ears. He walks with great purpose and Clove is terrified that he will turn around, even though she's asking for it. "Peeta, stop!"And he does. Her worst wish granted. The sky is like quicksand, she's sure of it. Consuming and dark and Peeta turns. She knows every feature of his face but would never have recognised him for the embedded time.

His voice is so damn quiet when it comes out, Clove has to listen hard. "Tell me it isn't true,"

Jesus, how can she tell him now? How can she say anything?

When Clove says nothing, Peeta makes a noise of great suffering and turns, covering his eyes, needing to breathe. Clove would not dare dream of touching him. She lets him be, and watching the demolition of such a beautiful, naive boy. When he turns, he isn't a boy anymore. His eyes are blood-red with tears and he looks so lost. Wrenched from the soil he once made sense in. Abducted by the wind he trusted.

"Tell me-…" his voice is still so quiet. It picks up slightly. "Please, God, tell me you didn't-" Peeta starts shaking his head furiously. And he can all he likes, backing away, biting his lips to keep the pain in, but fails. Clove's mouth is open, for the life of her she can't seem to close it. But still, she says nothing.

"I'm sorry," Clove whispers, pathetically. "Peeta, you have to know-" He bats her hand away with such ferocity, and his teeth glint like knives, how he wishes Clove could feel what he's feeling, this burning inside of him, boiling his insides, making them steamy and slippery, making him wish he could vomit up his own heart instead of these tears.

"No!" he snaps, but it falls too fast and he breaks down into tears. "No, I-…"The words die. The flowers die and all that's left is the smell of the damp of graves. Clove's words rot and fall away. What can she possibly say? How can she justify herself to him?

The silence stretches far beyond her mind can. It pains her. The elastic absence of noise feels hot and shudders like snow. Tyye are both nailed by each of their toes to the spot, not standing their ground, but not surrendering it, either. And Peeta won't dare look her in the eyes, he won't look at her and Clove is glad. Those dangerous blues are too deep for her right now, and Clove knows she can't swim. She reaches out a hand like slander.

"I know how this feels-" He turns on her suddenly. Peeta isn't violent, but she sees everything, all of it, in his eyes. Like a ship, a vessel cracked open, sinking into darkness. Maybe this isn't survivable. Maybe this will be the thing that breaks him. It takes a woman to break every man's resolve, and a man to break theirs in turn. Clove never thought she would break Peeta.

"No, you don't!" His voice is hoarse and rusty. This tone hasn't been used so long, a poorly-maintained weapon, but still sharp enough to kill. He's breathless and red when he raises a nasty finger to her. "What did-" The threat of tears pauses him. He starts, swallowing. "What did you do?" Then, with more expression. "When you found him, with somebody else?" Peeta speaks through teeth. "What was the first thing you did?!"

Clove staggers back, blindsided by this, and she tries to remember, tries to recall. It has never been important. She gave up that gun a long time ago. The memory will not change, and the pain does no alleviate despite her wishes. Clove breathes out, her breath frayed and ragged. "I stood," she whispers. "That's all I did," her gulp confirms it. Her breathing gets tight and her throat is a pinprick when she continues. "I stood outside of the door and listening. And I-…" Her breathing is so soft. "I left him."

Peeta looks at her. He looks hard with this strange look in his eyes and he pulls back. His Devil has a firm grasp around it.

"That's it..?" Clove doesn't have enough fight left in her. Cato's voice wipes out everything she says or has said. He appears in the door, looking pale, and sick. Her daughter stares from across the room, silent, but grabbing at the air, holding hands with it. He stares even more intently at Clove. "That's all you did?"

Peeta chokes up, and covers his eyes.

Clove turns around to face him. "What do you want me to say?" Her voice trembles. "You weren't worth it." Worth. It winds him and he struggles for air. Oh, Jesus. Peeta grabs Clove by the jaw with this strength that comes from nowhere she knows. He grabs her and looks her in the eyes.

"I never wanted to say it," Peeta's voice is burning with his contempt. "But I knew from the start that he was selfish and spoiled." Peeta turns his eyes on Cato. "I knew that you only went with me to get as far away from her as possible," His voice drops, suddenly humble, suddenly somehow pathetic. "But I loved you,"

Clove struggles with mild alarm. She pulls back but Peeta's grip onto intensifies. Bruises are forming underneath his neat little Surplus hand. Horrified, she stares at him. "If a man doesn't have what's necessary to make another love him, it's his fault." She swallows, so careful in speaking, but dangerous with her words. "It's his fault and not hers –" Peeta throws her when he releases his grip. Never once does he disagree. Never once does he stop looking to Cato. For what? Some kind of explanation? There isn't one to be offered.

The silence feeds the fire like oxygen to a flame. Peeta raises a hand to Clove and Cato loses it. "Don't you touch her!" He snaps. Nobody dares tear the silence. Cato sees the convergence of the twain once more: the illusion of love, and the slow-burning resentment that burns his heart. Clove is sick with grief, and he thinks, Kara Is being such a good girl, good girl staring serenely like it's all okay.

Oh my God, Kara. She looks so much like her mother.

Peeta looks eerily calm. "Why should I make myself to the smallest inconvenience on your account?" It's the way he speaks to Cato, so suddenly cold and distant and untouchable. Spits 'your' to rhyme with scum because he can't even look Cato in the eyes.

Clove remains frozen, a shaking hand to her lips. She looks up from the floor at Cato with this bleak look of comfort. Glad to see him there. The paradigm has shifted. She remembers being in this place before, choked, at the mercy of a broken heart. That was a long time ago, and Cato had been the one strangling her, and not saving her life. He's learned a new trick: tact.

Cato turns to the Surplus. The Pariah King. "You said you loved me," His voice is charged with a storm but muted. "Once,"

It's a good enough reason. Peeta turns back to Clove, still terrified by him, still helpless. TI baffles the Pariah King. Clove is smart and strong, a Career's a Career until their last breath and she's always been one to fight back, not to cower. What is Clove protecting? Who is she protecting?

He grabs her by the arm and heaves her to standing. Clove cries out in pain but never resists. Not even when Peeta marches them towards the sentry, tears the rifles from the man's arms and unclips the safety, cocking it. Cato nearly faints when Peeta points the gun on her.

He fires the gun by Clove's feet, and she damn well screams, stumbling to her right blindly. Her toes curl, bare under the light. She looks so pathetic and defenceless. The fight is unfair. Peeta cannot stand it. He is wracked with tears.

"Look at him!" The Surplus hisses. Clove turns to look at Cato, miserable, shaking so hard, like a brittle, lifeless brown leaf. Peeta rests the butt of the gun against his shoulder, just like Cato showed him, like a good boy, like a good Surplus. Kara begins to wail, and Cat doesn't know what to do.

What is there to do with a girl that refuses to be his?

Peeta shoots again, he scars her, and his voice is a train-wreck even when he pulls the command. "Tell him you'll stay with him," he sobs, sick and strange. "Say that you love him!" Peeta wipes at his eyes, but never lets hold of the trigger. "Promise him!"

Clove's voice I s pinched. "I love you-…" What a strange way of saying she knows she's supposed to. Peeta prompts her to keep moving, this queer little jig with ore rapid fire. Kara continues wailing, and Cato is stapled to thee spot by the sight of her. Clove stares at him. "I love you," She assures him, in a murdered voice. "I'll never leave you! I love you!"

"Stop it," Cato whimpers.

Clove has to go on. Tears are leaving her pale and fraught with horror. "I love you! I'll never leave you!"

Peeta isn't done. This side of him has surfaced, cold and malicious and wrong. Cato never suspected this lurked beneath all of that good intent, underneath those diamond eyes. "You won, clove. Both of you," the boy chokes. "Congratulate him!" More bullets strafe the air. One splits the skin on one of Clove's toes ad she sobs. He offers no mercy. "Jump!" The tone that mocks is the saddest of all.

On blood and white toes, Clove jumps. She puts her hands above her head but the pain is clear in her eyes. Clove screams out in pain when she lands o her toes, crumbles in half but keeps going with a desperate want to live. She looks into Cato's eyes, the ones he shares with Kara, and she sees everything she lives for.

"You won!" She trills in a cardboard voice. Clove jumps again and again, and again, whimpering, howling, a spray of blood on the floor with sall spatter. The tendons prominent on her prouf arches are ruddy and rouge. Her face is bleached with tears, and Clove goes on. "You won!" Her smile is haunting. "We won!"

Cato crosses the room, and Peeta pulls the gun on him. "That's enough!" And the room goes silent as the grave, but for Kara. Peeta lowers the gun, and no sooner that he does than Clove crumbles to the floor, landing on twisted ankles, falling down onto her side and going limp like she's skipped rigour mortis entirely. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is slight. Cato thinks she must have fainted. He goes to her side in an instant.

Peeta drops the weapon. "You made me believe you loved me," he whispers.

Cato doesn't ever dare apologise. "I know." He says, over his shoulder, manoeuvring Kara into one of his arms, the child leaning over his shoulder slightly, still crying, but silently, staring bleakly at a corner of the room. With the other he nudges Clove gently, barely. Her feet are a bloody mess. Her body looks too pale, too grotesque under the milk of the lights.

"They want to send you to three." Peeta says, suddenly. His eyes are drying, perhaps too dehydrated. "To fight." Cato looks up at him then, afraid. "Just you,"

"I won't go," He says.

"You won't." Peeta concedes. "Do you know a place in 9, just south of the main border?" Wooden, Cato nods. "They've had an outbreak of cholera, and scarlet fever." His tone goes grave. "They have limited medical supplies, but nothing near the Capitol. It's being managed, but people are dropping like flies,"

His tone becomes serious, nailed back down by the weight of his heart. "I could send you there with her,"

Cato pauses completely, withdrawing from Clove, still locked in unconsciousness, and addresses Peeta with hard eyes. "You're mad," He says. "You can't possibly send her there."

"Why not?" Peeta sounds so damn innocuous, it takes everything not to punch him. "Stay for two weeks, under a house arrest and slip away to Ten in the night." His tone is soft. "I can turn the electricity off for an hour or so on the fence. You'd be declared as dead. Nobody would find you."

Cato looks down. "Why?" His voice is dumb. "Why help us, I mean?"

Peeta returns with equal force. "I want you gone." He snaps. And then turns soft once more. "I want you gone, but not dead. We have 10 at the moment. You'd be safe,"

Clove comes around very slowly. Her face is white and she shakes. Cato tears a strip of fabric from his sleeve and binds her foot. He explains Peeta's offer to her in such a calm voice. And so full of love, Peeta is envious. The woman is cold and hard and you can say so much against her. What a mystery this world is. One day you love, and the next you want to kill a thousand times over. Her first response is surprising.

"Are you mad?" She asks them, both or one or none, it's hard to tell. Her voice is cracked from all of that shouting. She takes Kara with a natural malice. "I can't take her there, she'd get sick."

Peeta cites Surplus medical training without thought. "Keep her inside, unexposed, and fed her only what you make yourselves. No water." He looks at Cato with eyes that hurt, he still loves so incredibly hard, but to see this stubbornness hurts him. "Please, Cato," His yes hurt from tears. "For me,"

Peeta asks in return only for a kiss.

A kiss that comes one war too late.


	42. Act 10, Scene 2

Let me tell you a story.

November, november. Mornings alike in darkness that swell around all of them, swallowing those 'presumed dead'. Clove sleeps, and, slumped in his struggling as he had done, succumbing to sleep, Cato does, too. He is leaning against a bare metal desk, torso balanced between the back of the chair and the front of the table, feet on the floor, arms on the desk.

His dreams are of Egypt, and so tantalizingly close that as he reaches for Clove a hand pulls him back.

He rises like a struck match, shoulders up and face closed to sympathy, ready to fight. He only softens slightly when he looks at the hand still placed on his shoulder, that matches the wires of the wrist, and the eyes of mercy above the lips of a storyteller.

Peeta has a pretty mouth. But not for kissing.

He looks heartbroken. His smile seems to have swung shut, leaving no room for Cato to slip a finger or too in and tear out the stitches. Such is love. Such is Peeta, sorry himself for not being enough to fill the shoes that will someday stand at Cato's side: sorry does not lend itself to his cause.

He just stands there, swung shut, and says 'let me tell you a story'.

The war rages and the bodies stink. Cato doesn't have the heart to say 'no'. He doesn't have the heart to say anything at all. He invites Peeta with a nod and ruminates, while the boy illuminates the room with a tenuous but present voice.

"District 1 used to be a vast desert." His voice is a muted storm. "When the rebels started to lose the war in the dark days, they were banished there," Cato has time. He's got plenty of time to be lazy, if only for Peeta. "They were lead by Odama Coin –that's why the President chose her name."

Cato looks at him with hard eyes. Peeta shuts his own, tightly. As if the torment is beyond looking.

"There was no water in the desert. His army was down to thirty, his wife included, when the Capitol sent them a single wine glass filled with water, and a message." Cato doesn't yet understand. Who is Peeta supposed to be in this story? What is this supposed to move Cato to do?

"The Capitol were mocking him. It said _'O wise King, it seems your mighty army will finally be defeated by the lands you craved'_." Peeta looks paned. Perhaps he is trying to recall the message. Perhaps he doesn't want to finish it. It has been finished for over seventy years, but Cato has never heard this story. You don't hear about these things in District 2. "_This glass contains the last of your water. We believe your wisdom shall save you all'_."

Cato still says nothing. He imagines the heat of District 1, the pavements a fire-red and the grass out there dying, whimpering under the sunlight to produce lawns that looks like beaten sheets of copper. Cato remembers something about the place. The strident bougainvillea, the barren soil. The barren people, white-skinned turning pink. Peeta looks down.

"He held the glass before his people. And he poured it onto the dirt."

Cato's lips move in sync with those rebels however many years ago. He asks the question for the, unable to understand. His voice is small. "Why?" He asks.

Peeta looks at him. Cato is confused. "He could have given his soldiers something –his wife something. Instead of wasting it like that."

He manages to swallow. "It was Odama's way of showing his soldiers that they were all equal. That their cause was greater than love alone,"

Cato takes Peeta's shoulder in one of his enormous hands. But instead of crushing, his fingertips trace what he could once call 'his' because Clove was his noble decision, his 'right', and Peeta is more than regret and spite, Peeta is more than he could ever put into words.

Just when he thinks he's finally stopped wanting him.

"Why did you tell me that?" The question gets too hot for his fingertips to hold on to and he drops it like the forest fire on District 12, such good intentions, such good in his fingers.

And Peeta looks at him with shards of glass in his smile. You want to know how he got these scars? He ripped every piece of Cato out of his own smile, Peeta tore the linchpin keeping his heart together and gave away his happiness in order to resurrect somebody spiteful enough to not give a fuck about Cato. He got these scars the day he fell for Cato; he landed face-first.

There's a picture of Cato and Clove on the night stand. And the first time Peeta had seen it, he wanted to reach his entire arm through the glass and snatch the happiness right off of Clove's face. Peeta has seen Clove in Cato's smile. Heard her voice in his laughter. Smelt her perfume on his lips and Peeta bets if they dusted Cato's ailing little heart for fingerprints, they would only find _hers._

"They're sending you to fight,"

(_Corpus Conquisitor -noun- a ground-based military unit of the rebel army, that serves the purpose of putting out fires, propping up walls and evacuating civillians. The literal translation is body seekers, or more commonly known as the 'corpse collectors'.)_

Peeta cannot breathe because he will vomit. But this is not about Peeta, for he was drunk on the abstract concept of love. This is not about Clove, her love paralysed her, only causing more pain. And this is not about Cato either, sitting there, praying to whichever god smiles upon him, please don't send me to three, please don't send me to three.

This is about war.

Cato does not yet know what the _'Corpus Conquisitor Unit'_ is, or what they do. He doesn't know how he will die, how this will end. He doesn't even know Clove's fate, and maybe it's better that way. He doesn't say anything. The silence is rigid and inelastic. Cato rises very slowly and walks to the other side of the room. He puts his weight in his hands and leans over where his daughter his sleeping. His eyes have seen everything, but give nothing away, because she is a good girl, because she is so much like her mother.

"What about her?" Cato speaks in a tone so stung with vacancy it matches his eyes. He is a man robbed of all purpose. Peeta's face is burning with shame. He wants to tear out his heart and give it to Cato, to remember him somehow, but what is the use, if they're both going to die?

His teeth deny his words clarity, as if it pains him to tell the truth. "I don't know."

Cato turns on him suddenly, his face a pale mess and his looks savage-wild. She sleeps and her fingerprints are on his heart and if so why is Cato looking like that?

"Save her." He whimpers, quietly. "Please. Send me to three and save yourselves."

It was against Peeta's wishes in the end to have Cato sent away. He holds too tightly. He loves too truly.

"I don't want you to go," Peeta whispers. "I never wanted you gone, Cato, I didn't-" This time Cato grabs him with force. It hurts enough that the sentiment falls short of being completed.

"Now's not the time," Cato looks him square in the eyes. There is hurt in them, hurt that cannot be fixed with words, or with wars, and he sees the shadow of a hunter that he saw in Katniss that same indignance, that inability to let go. Even now, Cato has the audacity to be beautiful when this place is ugly. Even now, he would have Peeta believe this world is like sugar: it can crumble so easily, but it can taste so sweet.

By all rights, they should kiss. Their locked eyes are too intense to deny a desire not deep or sexual but more than that. Emotional.

Cato says, "I have a daughter."

"I know," Peeta whimpers, "She's beautiful,"

"And a wife,"

"I know that," Peeta drops his eyes. Clove trusted him. Clove admired him, she thought she loved him and he repaid her with betrayal. Cato lifts Peeta's face with a hand on the Pariah's chin. He looks with longing and remorse, they blend together on the canvas of his face and create a melancholy that would stop the world.

"This isn't fair," Cato says the words like a promise. It isn't fair. Not to Clove, or Peeta, or even to Kara. All of them are alike in misery and dignity. It's not an opportunity or an invitation, but Peeta's got all this bitterness that's festering inside of him, he's got these scars and they're from Cato so he apologises in advance.

"What changed?" The words stand alone. Nobody here will ever want to fight him like Clove does, and while that fire is admirable, Peeta's love stutters when it gets nervous. It trips over it's own shoelaces. Cato swallows.

"Clove's-" His words catch and throw themselves back at him. What's most unfair of all is having to say this to Peeta. Having to watch his heart die, his love recoil when it deserves life, and sunlight. "She's pregnant," The words also strike a memory through him. Briefly, it passes and he holds onto most of it. He's heard her tell him once before. He's seen fear in Clove's eyes.

Peeta doesn't even stutter. He just keeps looking at Cato with those eyes. "I'll still love you,"

And Cato is still going to war. And Clove is still his wife. But most of all, they are all going.

It takes some ours for Clove to wake. Cato needed that time to summon his courage. And he has been drinking, not the man he once knew but halfway to what he aspires to be, so much so that he has only love when he staggers forward, and love when he stumbles into the room with arms full of 'I love you'.

As any good wife would, Clove hits him around the back of the head. She moves very deliberately, and invites him next to her. Cato sits above the sheets and leans back against the wall, breathing in. His heart hurts a little more every time it touches the bottom of his ribcage, and thesedays Clove doesn't look like she breathes at all. Her sketeton is perfect.

"When did you love me?" His arms are emptier now. He moves onto his side and stares her down with unblinking eyes. It blindsides Clove.

"Jesus, Cato," She spits, "Give me some warning next time," He still doesn't look away, pinning her to the bed, but at least with his eyes because she's been pinned with his body before and that's good but it's also wrong when she can feel Peeta's hands on his skin.

"Sorry," His voice is nearly consumed by the pillow. They fall into silence until he shatters it ice. "Clove?" It makes her jump.

"I'm not sure," She says. Well, she isn't. It certainly isn't the first time they fucked (because that's what it was, fucking, they haven't ever _made love_ because they don't love like that). Sure, she had never been made to feel close to that before, and while she very much enjoyed Cato in bed, much to her own irony, she didn't like him anywhere else. The arena, she didn't love him fully. There was warmth, or maybe even care. If she went home without him, though, what kind of love would she have had?

Clove didn't really love him when they were married. It's a horrible thought, but it's true. She always acknowledges that victors were never particularly happy, but on the day she stared at her reflection, shackled to Cato by some ring and wondering why she could not bring herself to smile. She didn't love him until Peeta, oddly enough. Until she knew what whims felt like, or what it was to lose her love.

"Do you remember when you told me about your dream, the first time?" she asks him. She shouldn't have to ask. She shouldn't have to ask, but there she is, praying he has something of her left in the back of his mind. Cato nods with a face of ambivalence. "Then, I think."

"Left it a little late, don't you think?" He chides, grinning. Clove smirks.

"You aren't exactly the most loveable of cretins," She remarks. He sits up a little and looks at her with such impudence that he's undeniable. Their faces are centimetres apart and if Clove wanted to, she could bridge the gap and then they'd be kissing and she wouldn't have to think.

"I don't know what you're talking about," He jokes. Clove has left it too late, she cannot kiss him now. "I think you find me charming, and suave, and-"

She sighs, "Incorrigible?"

He counters with such over-confidence. "I have no idea what the word means," And he grins at her again.

"Jesus," She shakes her head. "You really don't," And he kisses her with such force that Clove puts a hand on his heart, inviting him and discouraging him, all at once. She tastes like the last thing he should have been good at, but all he can think about is war, is the beat is that discordant drum and Peeta's story.

_O wise Pariah King, I believe your wisdom shall save us all._

His wisdom does nought. Not when Cato swallows his heart and opens his wrists ready for Clove's anger when he says. "They're sending me to fight,"

She hides the knives, bleaches the bathtub and pours out the vodka. Anytime. No, Clove doesn't shout. She rests her head against his heart, and breathes him in. Cato wraps one of his arms around her and makes sure she's there every so often. You can never be too sure. It might be snowing. It might be snowing, the air shuddering with pallor hat turns to flakes of gunpowder in war and then, when good men die in foreign fields, strident and red as strawberries in the summertime.

She will never think of him dead. Clove never tells Cato she loves him, she wouldn't dare say it so openly, but she does. If he lives to be a hundred, she wants to live to a hundred, minus a day, so that they'll never be apart. He's a punching bag, but he's perfect and he's hers and she'll never be ready to let go.

Neither of them say anything. They both pray, to new and old gods, to all they have lost faith in. _Please_, their prayers like a wilting tremolo, _don't send him to three. Keep him safe._

Eventually, Clove swallows hard and tries to speak. There are many difficult things to say. It takes what feels like ice ages before her voice finds it's way up her throat, and past her lips, which should be for kissing. Cato smells faintly of sour alcohol. That should, by rights, make things less complicated.

She looks at him properly. Really looks at him. And it's difficult to recognise him. His heart is tender and purple. He is Fifth Business. He is not the man she married, but he is the man he loves, not just for his beauty, or his feverent, intense love but for more than that. For his failures, and his quirks. What causes others to cast him out has Clove wound up with fear, she does not want to feel this way: she doesn't want to care. But here she is.

"Why did you stop playing the piano?" He asks her.

"I thought you didn't remember," Is alls he can say, because at first, Clove is afraid. Cato has his arms around her, exercising nothing but great care. Makes her sing like a piccolo when he kisses the nape of her neck.

Cato's voice is drowsed, and sun-dozed. "I remember you playing sometimes." he yawns. "Why did you stop?"

That damned piano. Looking pretty but having nobody to touch it, or to play it right. Peeta played piano. Sometimes Clove doesn't know what's a memory or a dream, she's going kind of crazy, the world shifts and only yesterday a Surplus put a gun to her, that was no dream, that shit was in the breakroom.

She's going kind of crazy and there's no sunlight here. It's all well and good because when she stares at the moon too long, she gets her period. It hasn't come in eleven weeks, it makes her nervous. Clove bled all over Cato's sheets once, it was embarrassing, but she was glad. And she'd glad now, even if it's harder to smile, even if she's losing him, her one great and impossible love.

Cato's her compass and she's going to lose him. She's already lost the directions of how to go up and it's too cold down here, she likes the heat but heard the devil's got a mean right hook: she bruises like a human. Why did she stop playing piano?

Clove sighs. "It never sounded as good as I remembered it," But she does, ultimately, remember. What hits her most is the memory of that drab little waltz, and then that bouncy jig. 'Pleading child' and 'perfectly contented' were two halves of the same song. Caught up in remembering the melodies, she only becomes aware of reality when Cato moves from her side,t hat most heavenly of places. Her ears ring with notes, but when they stop, she realises her daughter is crying. Such a good girl who has Clove's looks but Cato's' eyes, and is too innocent for the both of them.

Cato will spoil her. He'll protect her. She's half-glad they're not in 2, where all innocence is stamped out. Clove wants to protect it, this one bright, tall flower growing above the rest of them, pushing through the rubble and the bodies. And Clove knows already that Kara is going to be a fighter that's unavoidable, she'll be the kind of girl that burns roses, swear in her heart that Kara will be a dandelion girl.

With a mastery and patience she does not often see, Clove watches Cato carefully. His wrecking-ball fists become gentle hands. His practised smirk becomes a smile, golden and from his bright bones. "don't cry," his voice could rouse Clove from a nightmare smiling. "I'm-..." his eyes lock with Clove's, and it steals the meaning from his words, the love from his eyes when he says "I'm here," because he won't be forever.

This love is like getting robbed in an alley eight times and hoping there's some about 'today' that makes it all okay. This love is illogical and irresponsible. It burns brightly and Cato's hands sting. He holds on anyway.

The world shifts. It might be snowing. Men in three are dying. In the middle of the night he wakes and remembers, suddenly, Clove bleeding all over the sheets, she turned redder than he blood but Cato still thought she was beautiful, he still thinks he loves her. He better get used to blood.

And just before sunrise, two hours before her day starts he untangled himself from her body and undresses. Stares at his reflection and remembers the tip of the axe wounding him in the arena. Climbing up the train in the eclipse. Burn marks up his arms. A ghost in his lungs from the boy he kissed too hard. Irving sits by the door, her ghost translucent. The reflection startles him and Cato flinches a damn mile.

"Hey," She says to him, tonelessly. "It's just a trick,"

He leaves his wife sleeping, her daughter tucked into her chest, other life swelling inside of her. I promise you this, they will take his sanity. They will give him bodies. Some of them still half-breathing and others soulless before they hit the ground.

But bodies nonetheless.


	43. Requiem: Clove's Last Light

He feels around for my hand. In what must be complete and permanent consuming darkness, he finds it and takes my hand like a child with a doll. Smiles. His eyes are on some dreary corner of the floor, but I do not mind.

He swallows. There are too many scars around his eyes. Long, curling streaks of pink mar his perfection. The left eye glints a still-alien green, less watery, more vibrant –I feel like I should recognise him more. Broken man, reassembled. He strokes my knuckles as if he's trying to tame a wild animal: as he was once tamed.

"It was silly of us to look for qualities in eachother that we never had," ...never had? It hurts. I swallow, but keep it in, wouldn't dream of telling him how numb I feel, how hateful I feel. Maybe he knows. His knowledge of suffering is existential. . His other hand feels on the table besides him. Knocks letters onto the floor like a white waterfall. His fingers clasp a box on the table. Unknown to me. A monsoon pours outside: it always rains like this here, and I guess I'll never be used to it. Blindly, he pulls the bow forward and offers it towards me. Even before I move, he speaks.

"Don't worry about the letters," The box is small and black. I despise him giving me gifts. Giving me anything, for all the wealth a man might have I know Cato only has one thing left in the world. He changed after the war. Changed during it, and now they call him a good man, now! It is only after he has lost everything that they would offer him respect. "Take it,"

I shift. The air tastes like acid and the bite of a bullet. "I don't want to," The words sound heartfelt, sure. Me and my heart: I'm sure he would have torn it apart years ago, had he have known it would put us all through hell.

"You don't have to be embarrassed because you didn't get me anything," He laughs. He jokes like always .I wonder how he can stand it, how he can wake everyday if he can see in his dreams. But he smiles. Looks pale. Turns his head and his eyes and looks right at me, through me. I laugh for him and take the box with heavy heart and high courage. I try to be ready for anything.

Inside is a cracked splint of wood. My splint. It is all of the things he is, intricate and dark and very broken, but somehow still proud. A messy, mud-stained scruff and a silken tongue more brown than pink, even more majestic than when I first received it.

My hands tremble. "I thought I'd lost it,"

He breathes in slowly. Very carefully says nothing. His eyes have shifted now, slightly beyond me. The green sparkles. The blue looks old. I can see all of the hurt rotting and falling away, and the gesture confuses me.

"How long have you been holding onto this?" he says nothing. Nothing at all, and I want to shout at him. I want to be angry with him, but I know for him it must be a piece of her, a means of preservation. But he cannot avoid the question forever.

"Cato."his head lifts. His expression swings shut. "Too long,"

"How did you-"

In from the rain, Kara appears. For such a young age, she is unusually serious and unamused. Has that look of solemnity that Clove had, with a closed mouth and eyes that notice everything. She walks in with confidence, looks so much like her mother that he would cry to see her. She even walks like Clove, but for his eyes, oh God, these two bright blues that refuse to close for what they might dream. Still so small and young.

Cato leans forward in his seat and a smile appears on his face, untested and free for her. Even as she reaches down and hands him the fallen letters. He puts a hand on her hair, both affectionately and confirming. "There's some food for you in the kitchen," he says. Kara looks at him. Her eyes are enormous and blue but she never smiles. Perhaps because Cato cannot see her.

She rises and hugs him childishly. Turns to me with serious eyes. "Thank-you, Surplus Peeta,"

I smile at her as she putters out. So small and young and callow.

Cato leans an arm on the table besides him and rests his chin on his hand. "She doesn't smile much," As he turns back to me, he knocks a frame from the table. He freezes in shock, and I kneel to pick it up. "Peeta," he says, quietly.

When I look up at him, he feels over my face with his hands. So gentle and precise, with an envious but somehow distant caress over my lips, I winder if he misses them. I wonder if he knows that they are his for the taking, that my pallor is a white flag and I have given up trying to fight, instead I want to love. He takes my hand and feels over my embedded time, with such regret.

I can't stand it. I get up from under his eyes and sit on the piano stool. I look at the lion in my hands. Today is hard. Especially hard. Cato isn't making it any easier. Very slowly, he gets up from the chair and walks over to me. He sits on the stool next to me and lifts the piano lid. He starts to play a strong, flawless melody. He has had years to learn.  
He is a warrior. And a musician and the heart that I call home. He looks in my direction. "Do you remember your first parade? In the Capitol?"

I smile. "Yes," The music continues. "Just before you wiped the floor with me. I believe most of the crowd were looking at you,"

Cato smiles. He is caught in the softest kind of nostalgia. Grinning, he nods. "Yes, I did." A pause. "And yes, they were."  
We laugh. It is good to hear him laugh. And to play. He skims a few incorrect notes but covers them gracefully. He was utterly graceless before. It's strange.

The melody takes a turn fro the solemn. Cato's smile falls slightly. "Clove was there." Falls completely. "Watching."  
My face burns. "Yes, I remember,"

He looks up. "You should. You were the only one she looked for." I try to remember, but it has been buried deep underneath everything. I was a cold boy and now I am warmer and older. Cato laughs, bitterly. "I've never been so jealous,"

The minor key is piercing. Cato looks in front of him but addresses me most intimately. "I wanted to prove to her that I was the better man, you know?"

I laugh in defeat and resignation, to try and forget this conversation and memory. "You always were, Cato,"

He remains deadpan and continues playing. "Of course," And then he laughs, a real glimmer of a smile in his grin. But he swallows it all too fast. I try not to look him in the eyes as the melody winds and ties me to him.

"She was the first person I saw. I was looking for her." He clears his throat. "And she was staring at you." The bitterness colours his voice. "Everybody else was cheering for me, but she was staring at you,"

"No," I say, uselessly. He stops playing altogether, staring intently at nothing with blazing eyes. He'll never love me like he loved her, and I never asked him to. "When we were parked up, she was looking at you. We all were."

He swallows. "I didn't see,"

I start to play the other half of his song. 'Perfectly contented', in it's bright and bouncy key and waltz-like tempo. I look at him. "Maybe you weren't looking hard enough."

Cato looks at me. "Maybe,"

And he might kiss me here. He could, in the violet hours of this rainy day, all he would have to do is lean and then we'd be kissing, honouring her memory because to dance on graves is not to dishonour the dead and I love him, I've always loved him. It's only now after he has lost Clove and his sight and even some of his mind that he has started to look hard enough-

"Surplus?" Kara calls me from the kitchen. Probably furious, because she does not remember Clove, why should she? Only slightly a year old when Clove slipped away. I try not to talk about her in Kara's presence, but sometimes she overhears.

Maybe it's hope, but Cato looks slightly crestfallen. Hie eyes do not move when he calls back to her. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

It's always like this.

* * *

There is an urban legend about a man who walked all the way across Panem, from the Capitol right to the outline Districts for his love. That he was attacked by muttations and tracker jackers and soliders and soldiers, but he survived all of it. The story goes that he kept on walking, through a winter as hard as nails and the vast forests and deserts.  
In the story, he finds his love in the midst of an epidemic. He finds her on her deathbed. She does not recognise him. He sits with her in her last hour.

She asks him where he has been. He tells her he has been looking for her.

She is delirious with fever. She asks him why he is so sad. If he is going anywhere. So he tells her that he is. Somewhere she can't follow.

She strokes his knuckles like she is trying to tame a wild animal. She tells him he is gorgeous. Turns away and looks out the window, forgetting his name, she turns back and tells him he is gorgeous once more.

His love asks 'when I go, will you miss me?'.

And Cato had said 'Till the end of my days, Clover'.

Cato keeps one hand on my shoulder and his other in Kara's hand. We walk down into town. I don't know what District this used to be. We don't have them anymore. Our revolution ended with victory. But winning a war is only half the melancholy of losing one. We have businesses. They're working on extending the the transcontinental railroad, to more  
places across the country.

We have towns and cities now. It's different. We lost a lot. Technology and medicine and, in a way, stability. And today is when we celebrate this sacrifice, and all those we lost to our cause. I like to think that nobody remembers me. Our city is one of the largest and most beautiful, which helps me disappear. But they still ask me to speak.

Cato's speaking, too. Even after losing his sight, he hasn't lost his unhealthy love of being outdoors. He loves the city centre, with all of the sounds and smells. It is beautiful, too, but that wouldn't matter much to him. He hold onto me tightly as we cross the town square. It is beautiful here, but on days like these, when everybody is staring at him, and at  
me, with such intent, it makes me wish I didn't have to see. That sounds insensitive.

We both wear mockingjays. I couldn't remember Katniss' face or voice, or even her laugh if you asked me. I guess you could say I've been preoccupied. After Clove died, he was done with life, world-weary and shaken. Had the little white pill in his mouth, they told me.

Nightlock pills. Potassium cyanide. Back on the front of three, he found a quiet spot and chased the pills with whiskey. He waited for the sweet release, but none came. Life clung to him like a disease, and his insides burned for hours. His sight diminished into darkness. But still he did not die.

They found him caught in a barbed-wire fence, screaming hysterically for Clove, eyes wide open, but seeing nothing. The public call him a war hero.

Cato leans into me and says quietly, "They're all looking at us, aren't they?" I make a noise in response and a smile comes over his face. "I believe your wisdom shall save us all," He goads. I laugh and elbow him.

"Hey," Cato looks ahead, his eyes remaining always distant. Even his smile has changed. It's more honest. Less smug, I don't know- I saw the way he'd look at Clove, he knew he was her biggest mistake and it only made his grin more sinister. Even now, even though he doesn't look at her, the way he smiles when Kara says something profound or does something new: it's the incorruptible kind of good.

We feel for our seats and wait as the town mayor, elected in a vote-based, unbiased system, opens the celebrations with a few words. The crowd is enormous, completely swollen in numbers since last I looked. Cato leans heavy on my arm, but does the talking.

"Should I be nervous?" He murmurs. I have never gotten used to him looking ahead when he speaks to me. My silence prompts more from him. "The crowd, I mean,"

I shrug. And then speak. "They'll play nice," I assure him. "You're a war hero, y'know,"

He laughs. "Jesus, Peeta," He sighs. "I thought we weren't using those words," Kara looks up at him with very serious and demanding eyes. She always wants answers, and she asks them with the intensity to wipe out an army.

"Why not?" She asks him. "You are a war hero,"

He winces, visibly, and would explain, he would attempt to tell her about the nightlock, or the Games. They mayor has finished his introduction. Saved by the bell.

At first, they cheer. Cato stands, and I lead him very slowly to the lectern, if that's what you call it. Not a word is spoken. I guess most of them don't recognise him. It has been seven long years.  
His voice is invincible when he starts. The melancholy of a war lost is only half that of a war won," He closes his eyes.

"We do not remember this day to talk about the evils of the past. Or of the Games, or the Capitol." I watch him and fall  
in love once more.

"Neither of this is a day of mourning the dead, and being thankful to them," I disagree and pull back a little. But I make no assumptions. "That day is everyday," He places three fingers to his lips and extends them. The crowd follow him in the action. "Restoring balance to the world has never been done before," He sighs, and leans heavy again. Face so pale, eyes so stark, the one green, the one blue. "You have done the impossible, and that is why we remember,"  
He straightens and keeps it together. "They would be proud of you. All of those that went under, we have surely arrived in the future they hoped for."

Cato swallows. "To Panem!" And the crowd chorus it back 'to Panem'. "And all of the others we left behind."  
They cheer for him. I cheer, too, rising, I help him back to his seat and then go to the lectern. I have no speech. No genius, and contrary to some beliefs, I don't have this magical way with words. I'm just a man, plain and simple. Cato nods to me, and mimes 'Pariah King'. I keep it in mind.

I hold my wrist up. "When the war ended, I went back to Surplus for my patron." I sigh. I try to sound convincing. "So many old friends ask me why. I remember the station when I left home that first time." Silence. Napalm quiet. "Surpluses lacked the status of the servant, and the tragedy of the avox, and we were not as much fun as employées. Nobody wanted to be there,"

"I used to play chess with my brothers in 12. Dannyl asked me what my favourite piece was, and told me his was the pawn simply because he's the underdog and the odds are against him," I tap my component. "I identify with the pawn, too, but I see nobility in their struggle and the fact that they are always moving forward."

"For seven years I have had laughter and roses and I have been happiness. Because of our revolution. It makes me think that the reason pawns can't move backwards is if they could, they would kill their own kings in a heartbeat,"  
The reaction is wonderful. It strikes a chord. I just hope it makes sense when I communicate my thoughts. "We were forced to keep moving forward, the promise of royalty if we got to the other side meaning we most likely would have died on the way –I wish you all horses, and castles." I sigh. "We have our freedom because you kept moving forward, because we –we earned it."

Again, silence. "When people ask me why I chose to Surplus, I can't say exactly. I think it's-..." I think about Cato. Sitting there in his own darkness. "I think it's because we once lived in a time where we did not choose our roles, but resigned to them."

In custom, I raise my hand. "For Panem!" and they chorus back to me.

* * *

Early the next morning, I find the house empty. With reckless abandon, I search but cannot find Kara or Cato. It's pretty unwise to lose a blind man, so I search the house piece-by-piece. The clock chimes. Sunday. Sunday?

I head to the cemetery.

The smell of tulips and violet perfume comforts me. I see Kara sitting by her father. He has one hand on the cool marble of her tombstone. No body here. Scarlet fever and cholera meant that both sufferers shared a mass grave in nine. Or what was once nine.

Cato hears me and says, "Peeta,"

He can see nothing.

He turns back around and looks at me. Looks at me and I know from that how hard and true he loved her. For a long time I'm sure he wanted me buried there, and not her, but that seems to have changed. I can see her ghost perched on the grave. Clove looks at me with cool eyes and she laughs. Gives me a single nod, and fades. Her last light.  
At first, I don't believe it. Dismiss it as superstition. That's why Cato's next five words change everything.

"This is me letting go," And he stands up, slowly, leaning heavy on her grave. He takes my shoulder and leans into me.

"What are we doing for breakfast, _dearest_?"


End file.
